


To Make a Deal

by Queenoftheuniverse, VincentMeoblinn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Crime Scenes, Domestic Violence, Drug Use, Happy Ending, Implied Drug Use, John!whump, Knife Play, M/M, Post John, dom/sub dynamics, pre-John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-03
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-07 09:11:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 24,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/746803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Queenoftheuniverse/pseuds/Queenoftheuniverse, https://archiveofourown.org/users/VincentMeoblinn/pseuds/VincentMeoblinn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young, homeless, and drug addicted Sherlock Holmes makes a deal to help a Police Constable rise to the ranks of Detective Inspector in return for helping him empty his manic mind, but he has no idea what kind of a world he's just stepped into or just how addictive it can be.</p><p>Please welcome Queenoftheuniverse who will be taking over this loverly fic from Ch 5.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Deal Gone South

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Sherlock or the BBC, I do not make money from these fanfics.
> 
> For your reference, Sherlock is 19 and has gone to some University. Lestrade is 32, Mycroft is 28, Sally and Anderson are not on the force yet. If this continues a while, I may include them later and they'll be newbies. This will not be a Mystrade or Johnlock or any combo therein.

“I’ll suck you off.” Sherlock purred, running his tongue along is full lips.

The Police Constable in front of him looked like he was considering it, too, but he didn’t drag Sherlock into the nearby alley, remove the cuffs from his wrists, and take him up on the offer. Damn.

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen, but I look young, don’t I? No one would blame you.”

“Been at this a while, haven’t you?”

“Not really. I’ve just never met a PC with big strong hands like yours.”

Give the man a prize; he didn’t buy that line for an instant. Instead he snorted and shook his head as though amused.

“What’s your name?”

“Sherlock Holmes, pleasure to make your acquaintance, and you are?” Sherlock extended his hand jovially, and was surprised when the man took it and shook it firmly.

“Gregory Lestrade, Police Constable, New Scotland Yard Vice division. I’m going out on a limb here and saying you’re from money, you hate your parents, ran away, and took up drugs to cope.”

“Three out of four, not bad for an average mind,” Sherlock smirked.

“So which was I wrong about?”

“The reason for my nefarious habit. I don’t shoot cocaine to cope with my parent’s expectations; I shoot it because my mind is running away on me. It helps me focus.”

“So you’ve got ADHD, eh? They do have honest medication for that.”

“I haven’t got ADHD. I have antisocial personality disorder.”

The officer frowned at that and Sherlock sighed.

“Listen, if you take me to a clinic I can tell you exactly what will happen, because it’s happened before. They’ll make me go clean, then they’ll let me go and I’ll go on a harder bender than before. I might even end up inadvertently killing myself. If you incarcerate me, I’ll intentionally kill myself. In fact, I can think of at least 8 ways to do it right now that would get around your damnable fail safes.”

To prove his point, Sherlock listed them, and the man’s eyebrows rose until they nearly disappeared behind his short-cropped, prematurely graying hair. Then his eyes narrowed.

“Where did you hear about that last one?”

“The news, of course, you do watch it don’t you?”

“That part didn’t make the news, not sensational enough. Only the murder did; when the DI in charge figured out it was suicide made to look like murder the press couldn’t be arsed to air that info.”

“I figured it out when it was originally on the news.” Sherlock stated with a shrug.

“How?”

“It was obvious. Why? How long did it take your DI to figure it out?”

“A fucking month, and he only looked into it because the man’s life insurance company didn’t want to pay out and kept fucking calling him.”

“Moron,” Sherlock stated, in his opinion charitably.

“Well, if you’re so clever, why don’t you figure out another one for me? You see that missing person, assumed murdered on the news?”

“Boring. The missing man is sitting in one of your jail cells awaiting his trial. He has a twisted lip, red hair, and a dirty face.”

“That’s the suspected murderer,” Lestrade sighed, rolling his eyes.

“He disguises himself as a beggar to get tax-free money. He makes a killing down by the opium dens. I’ve seen him before. Wash his face and watch that twisted lip come right off. When he saw his wife outside the room he uses to don his disguise he panicked, threw on his disguise, and tried to get rid of his proper clothing so she wouldn’t figure it out. When you lot showed up and assumed murder he was too ashamed to admit the truth. Your missing person is sitting in your jail sell for suspected murder of his own person.”

Lestrade blinked, and then pulled out his mobile. Ten minutes later he lowered it with a look of amazement on his face.

“You were there?” He asked, though he didn’t sound as though he thought that was the case.

“No, but I’ve seen him before. I didn’t realize it was a disguise before; it’s really quite good. Possibly he’s better at disguises than I am.” Sherlock admitted with an annoyed frown, “I pieced it together yesterday while shooting up. Clears the mind.”

“My super just offered me a raise for that,” Lestrade said with amazement.

“Good on you. Throw me another, this is fun. Perhaps we’ll get you promoted from vice to homicide before the end of the day; that way you won’t have a reason to toss me in jail for something outside your division.” Sherlock winked and nodded down towards his cuffs.

“I’ve got a better idea,” Lestrade grinned, “I’ll let you off today, after you give me head, of course, and you’ll contact me next time you have any brilliant ideas. Stay clear of the drugs and I’ll even buy you dinner every time you solve a case for me.”

“Deal.”

Lestrade glanced aside, but it was nearly 2AM and the streets were empty of even the worst riffraff. He tugged Sherlock down that alleyway and un-cuffed him. Sherlock dropped to his knees and undid the man’s trousers, pulling his hardening prick out of his pants through the slit. He licked his lips, suddenly nervous, then wrapped his mouth around the shaft and gave the head a curious lick.

“Mmmmm, yeah,” Lestrade growled above him. Well… that was a bit rewarding. Sherlock gave him another lick and then began bobbing his head the way he’d seen the streetwalkers do.

“Shit!” Lestrade snapped, grabbing his hair, “Haven’t you ever done this before? Watch the teeth!”

Sherlock let Lestrade’s cock go and glared up at him, “I’ll learn if you give me a chance, as you’ve already noted, I’m very clever. How difficult could cock sucking be?”

“Give me your hand.”

“No, I’m doing it this way.”

“No, I mean, let me show you.”

Lestrade took his hand and sucked two of Sherlock’s fingers into his mouth, running his tongue around them and sucking with his lips covering his teeth. Sherlock’s eyes widened and he felt himself hardening at the skillful machinations of the PC’s orifice.

“Like that,” Lestrade stated, releasing his fingers, “and give my bullocks a rub while you’re down there. Same as you touch your own.”

Sherlock descended on him with enthusiasm and the man was soon panting and moaning softly as Sherlock did everything in his power to make him loose control. The thoughtful PC with the severe haircut and the strong jaw had just become a very big focus for him, and he was enjoying watching him come undone from where he knelt at his feet. Sherlock recalled his mention of bullocks rubbing, and cupped them before stroking his thumb beneath them at the man’s perineum.

“Coming!” Lestrade gasped, and Sherlock felt the member in his mouth twitch before his mouth was flooded with salty come. Startled, he swallowed it without thinking. After two months on the street, he’d certainly tasted worse.

“Oh, fuck, that was good. You are a quick study, eh?”

“Yes, well…” Sherlock got awkwardly to his feet, his tented trousers uncomfortable.

“Need a hand?”

“Sorry?”

“You’re looking a bit hard up yourself,” Lestrade motioned to Sherlock’s obvious erection and put an arm around the young man’s waist, tugging him close.

Sherlock found his lips once more occupied, but this time with Gregory Lestrade’s skillful kisses. He had one arm around Sherlock’s waist where he gave his buttocks a squeeze, while the other wriggled inside his loose trousers and gripped his hard cock. Sherlock gasped, and Lestrade’s tongue slipped inside, not seeming to be bothered by the taste of his own spunk. Sherlock panted and groaned, fucking Lestrade’s fist as his mind went blissfully blank as he floundered through his first experience of sexual stimulation with another person. Lestrade took that moment to grab both of his wrists with his free hand and pull them hard up to the center of his back. Sherlock was bent back a bit now, his shoulder’s in agony, and his normally maddening mind empty of everything except pure, unadulterated sensation.

Sherlock threw his head back, mouth open and eyes wide, and came with a strangled cry. The PC continued to stroke him through his orgasm, leaving off just before it became too much. Sherlock sagged against him and the man chuckled, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s neck.

“Hard up, indeed, for such a pretty thing. You can call me for that, too.”

Lestrade and Sherlock untangled themselves and Lestrade gave him his card with his contact information on it.

“I can get you a disposable mobile if you need it, but we’ll have to arrange to meet somewhere.”

“I have one, thanks.” Sherlock breathed, rubbing at the mess in his trousers with a napkin Lestrade had thoughtfully provided.

“Good, you call me then. For… whatever, but definitely for those clues.”

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock blushed as the man leaned forward and pressed a far more intimate kiss to his lips.

“I’m going to look forward to your calls, I can tell that already.”

Sherlock watched him leave and waited until he’d rounded the corner and was _not_ going to return before he sagged against the alley wall.

“Oh, my god.” Sherlock breathed, staring at the wall opposite with shock.


	2. Yes or No?

Sherlock had been on drugs long enough to recognize the signs of addiction, and had absolutely no delusions that he ‘could quit at any time’. So when he started positively twitching for Lestrade’s company he did what any dedicated addict did; he pulled every newspaper he could find out of the trash, found a case, and texted the PC with word that he had a tip for him.

**To: Lestrade  
            Found a clue for you. Need to see crime scene photo’s of the Hobson theft -SH**

**To: SH  
            Not my division. I can’t get my hands on those.**

**To: Lestrade  
            How am I supposed to get your sorry arse out of vice if you can’t get me any non-vice cases? Turn in my fellow junkies and hope one of them committed a murder at some point that you can valiantly point out? Get me those pictures - SH**

**To: SH  
            Pushy little bitch, aren’t you? I’ll see what I can do. **

Three days passed and Sherlock couldn’t even score a hit of cocaine. He didn’t have the money and the appeal of whoring himself out had passed once he’d tried it with Lestrade. He wanted to feel those hands on him again. He _needed_ it.

**To: Lestrade  
            I could set up one of my fellow junkies for you - SH**

**To: SH  
            You haven’t been on the streets long, have you? You turn rat you’ll end up in the Thomes. **

**To: Lestrade  
            Need to see you. Have new info. Come at once to Piccoli Street - SH**

**To: SH  
            On my way.**

Sherlock’s foot was tapping against the gutter as he sat on the curb, twitchy and desperate to meet up with the man who could clear his mind. The panda wagon rolled past him and vanished around a corner. Sherlock waited impatiently until the man himself came strolling down the sidewalk, in plain clothes with his eyes on his mobile, managing to _not_ look like a Yardman which Sherlock’s addled mind decided to find impressive. He walked past Sherlock as though he hadn’t noticed him there and turned down an alleyway. Sherlock waited two minutes, counting the seconds, then stood and strolled casually into the alleyway.

“We’ve got twenty minutes then I need to leave. What do you have for me?”

“Full lips and a willing arse?” Sherlock offered.

Lestrade looked up at him and raised an eyebrow, “We’re going to need a code so you can tell me that ahead of time. I was expecting information. I don’t have time to do you properly.”

“So do me improperly.” Sherlock suggested, placing his hands on the man’s chest and sliding them up to his shoulders. Lestrade removed them before he could wrap himself around him.

“Not until I know what you’re after.”

“You.”

“I highly doubt that hand job I gave you won your heart over. I’m not paying you. I haven’t got the money for whores.”

“I don’t want money, though that _would_ be nice. I believe you said you’d buy me a meal if I stayed clean?”

“Oh? And have you been a good boy?”

“I’ve been a very naughty boy, but I’ve been a _clean_ naughty boy, and I believe I’ve earned a bit of your time in _private_. And a meal.”

“I think I can manage them both. My wife’s out with her lover tomorrow night…”

“I can’t wait that long,” Sherlock insisted, snatching at the man’s clothes and pressing himself close, “Pull my arms back and toss me off like you did before.”

“Pull your arms back?” Lestrade’s eyebrows furrowed as though he couldn’t recall the event.

“Yes! The way you did last time! My mind went _blank_ when you did that. I need it! If you don’t I’ll shoot up. Now!” Sherlock dropped to his knees and struggled with the man’s buckle.

“Did you seriously hit subspace just from getting your arm’s yanked a bit? That’s not even possible.” Lestrade scoffed.

“What’s subspace?” Sherlock asked, jumping on the term.

“A sort of floaty feeling Subs get when you rough them up right,” Lestrade said with a shrug, “I’ve never hit it myself, of course, but I’ve thrown enough men and women there to know the signs. You weren’t in it, I’m sure of that, but maybe you were close.” 

“What do I need to do to get there again? Experience pain?” Sherlock’s mind was wandering to all the things he could do to himself, and Lestrade’s eyes widened in alarm.

“Whoa! Hold on! It’s not that simple… look… let me call out. You obviously need something bad. We’ll get a hotel room and I’ll get you straightened out.”

Lestrade pulled Sherlock to his feet as he smiled in relief. Lestrade was going to fix it; he was going to calm Sherlock’s mind for him. He might even get that hot meal if he managed to satisfy the man in return.

“I told them I have a family emergency,” Lestrade explained once he got off the phone, “I want you to take this money and get a hotel room. Text me the info and I’ll be there in 30 minutes; I just have to drop the car back off and pick up my own. If you stand me up to spend this on drugs we won’t be meeting again, I don’t care what kind of brilliant deductions you’re capable of making. Oh, and I got some cell phone pics of the crime scene photo’s. Best I could do.”

“That will have to do,” Sherlock replied, taking the money Lestrade offered him, “I’ll look at them after?”

“No problem. Remember, this is your _only_ chance. I’m trusting the shit out of you right now. Don’t. Play. Me.” Lestrade emphasized his words with sharp jabs of his finger that Sherlock wasn’t even tempted to knock away.

“I won’t. I’ll be there. No drugs.” Sherlock was nodding like a bobble head doll, but it didn’t occur to him to feel self-conscious until after Lestrade had strolled out of the alley. He felt himself flush with shame then, and took a long look at the money in his hand. He could buy enough cocaine to hold him off for a month with this, especially since Sherlock cut it down to a 7% solution before shooting it.

Sherlock weighed his vices as he walked up the street, his mind waffling back and forth, but the unknown had always called to him; that was how he’d gotten involved in drugs the first time around. He knew the streets like the back of his hand, so a few turns down alleys and he was near a hotel with a vacancy sign. He marched in and asked for a room for the night. The man gave him a narrow-eyed look, but turned out a key.

            **To: Lestrade  
            The Apple Barrow 31 st St 32C**

Sherlock hit the shower first, not bothering to give the room more than a cursory glance. He wanted to be clean for Lestrade, and it had been ages since he’d bathed in anything besides a fountain. He had no idea what he’d do when winter rolled around. It was already getting cold, and the shelters were always full; most didn’t allow men, anyway. He knew places he could sleep that would lessen his likelihood of freezing to death, but that was a sincerely unpleasant thought. He knew many people now who had survived by being huddled together under overpasses or in the sewer systems or lying on heated grates. Abandoned buildings were another option, but you were more likely to be thrown out of there by either the police or thugs.

Sherlock washed his clothes in the tub after he’d finished washing himself, hoping Lestrade wouldn’t need any soap since he’d used it all up. He hung them up to dry and slung a towel around his waist. He climbed under the sheets and wished for the peace of mind to sleep. It had been days since he last slept; he wasn’t even sure of the exact number.

His mind darted frantically from one subject to the next:

_Calculus from Uni..._

_The shock on Mr. Colbrans face when I graduated years ahead despite my obvious recreational habits…_

_Sunny on Tuesday. Partially Cloudy on Wednesday. 60% Chance of Rain on Thursday…_

_Huddling under a bridge…_

_Wonder what I’ll get to eat? …_

_That blank empty feeling when Lestrade pinned my arms behind my shoulders and brought me off…_

_3.1415926535897932384626433832795028841971693993751058209749445923078164062862089986280348253421170 67982148086513282306647093844609550582231725359408128481117450284102701…_

_Rien n’y fait, menace ou prière._  
L’un parle bien, l’autre se tait.  
Et c’est l’autre que je préfère.  
Il n’a rien dit mais il me plait.

_L’amour! L’amour! L’amour! L’amour! …_

_Does Lestrade speak French? Is he French? Lestrade sound’s French…_

_M'excusez-vous, monsieur, parlez-vous français? …_

_God save our gracious Queen,_   
_Long live our noble Queen,_   
_God save the Queen:_   
_Send her victorious,_   
_Happy and glorious,_   
_Long to reign over us:_   
_God save the Queen…_

_Three bodies were found slaughtered in little China during a small street festival; police say the victims were in horrific condition due to contamination of the scene by animals and little forensic evidence could be recovered…_

There was a firm knock at the door and Sherlock bolted for it, loosing the towel just as he opened it.

“Damn, you’re eager.” Lestrade laughed.

“It slipped,” Sherlock scowled and grappled after the wayward terrycloth, “I took the opportunity to wash both my person and my clothes. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, especially the part where you washed yourself up.”

Lestrade sat on the bed and Sherlock bolted for him, jumping into his lap and slobbering on him in an attempt at kissing him passionately. Lestrade simply stood up and dropped Sherlock on his arse, wiping his mouth off with a look of disgust.

“Sit down a moment. We’re talking first.”

“I’ll look at your damn photo’s later,” Sherlock whinged, “I need you _now_.”

“That’s what we need to discuss. If we’re doing this- and with that attitude we’re doing it often and hard- then we’re doing it responsibly.”

“There’s a prophylactic machine next to the fountain drinks,” Sherlock stated, holding his hand out for money.

“I brought my own, thanks, but that’s not what I meant. Sit.”

Sherlock slouched a bit, then levered himself up to sit beside the man. His attempt to paw at his leg was easily brushed aside.

“What sort of limits do you have? Anything you don’t want me doing or saying?”

“No. Now can we start?” Sherlock was brushed aside again.

“Not going to go down like that. Spill it. How far can I go with you before you’re uncomfortable? You never gave a blowjob before the other day, what about anal? Do you want to take this slow?”

“I’ve never done it, but that doesn’t mean I don’t _want_ to. I’m honestly open to anything, just so long as it happens _soon._ ”

“You know, I honestly think you don’t get this. Let’s try it this way. I’m going to list things and I want you to answer with a simple yes or no.”

“I’m not a _child_ …”

“Anal is a yes, and so is oral obviously, so we’ll skip that.”

“This is tedious and unnecessary!”

“Electrocution?” Lestrade tried, his face making it clear he was trying to shock Sherlock into taking this seriously. It worked.

“Sorry?”

“Yes or no?”

“No?” Sherlock tried, staring at the man with a bit of fear.

“Pity, well maybe you’ll change your mind later. We’ll leave it open to that, yeah? Seeing as how you’re inexperienced. How about tools that leave small cuts?”

“Small… Yes?”

“Tools that leave bruises?”

“Yes?”

“Tools that leave welts?”

“Yes… Sorry, what exactly do you mean by ‘tools’?”

“Orgasm denial?”

“Well that doesn’t sound pleasant at all.”

Lestrade laughed, “If the rest did than I think you may be the best masochist I’ve ever met.”

“That’s what you’re talking about? Masochism? My god, I just wanted you to _wank_ me.”

“No you didn’t. You wanted me to hurt your arms and bring you off. Bit of a difference.”

“Not that much!”

“You’ve only said no once so far. Want to change your answers?”

Sherlock thought a moment, and took into account the fact he was hard and aching.

“No.”

“Orgasm denial?”

“Yes.”

“Hot wax?”

“To remove hair?”

“No, though I may have you shave.”

“Yes… to both.” Sherlock pressed the heel of his hand against his cock through the towel. He was more than a bit shocked at how excited this was making him. Did he really consider his own life to be so worthless that he was willing to hand his safety over to a man he barely knew?

 _Yes._ Sherlock thought.

“Tickling?”

“Ugh, no.”

“Fair enough, tying you up?”

“Yes, please!”

“Suffocation?”

Sherlock hesitated a moment.

“Yes, and I want to change electrocution to ‘yes’ as well.”

“Fantastic. I’ve got a lovely toy for that. Call him Victor.”

“No.”

“About what?”

“This Victor person, I’m not willing to do this with someone else. Not yet.”

“You don’t have to. Victor’s a machine I’m going to use under your bullocks and inside your arsehole to make you have a massive orgasm by electrocuting your prostate.”

“Oh, god.” Sherlock groaned, gasping as his cock twitched frantically and a shudder ran through his body.

“Done so soon? Damn.”

“No! I mean… no, I was just… had a chill.”

“Right. Pick two words that you rarely use in regular conversation, but that are easy to remember and say.”

“Clock and Basket.”

“Great. Clock is going to mean you need a break. Basket is going to mean you need me to stop immediately.”

“Alright.” Sherlock felt a bit of relief at that, but was still thrumming with excitement.

“Fantastic, now. Loose the towel and lay face down on the bed.”


	3. Learning the Use of Proper Titles

“I think we’ll take this slow for tonight,” Lestrade stated, ignoring Sherlock’s frown, “I’ve brought along a training collar. I’m going to take you out to get a good look at the London Scene and you can tell me if this is really what you want. If it is, we’re going to come back here and I’m going to take you apart bit by bit until you’re a whimpering, quivering, pile of need. Then I’m going to give you _exactly_ what you need. Understand?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathed into the blankets below his face, almost forgetting how.

“That’s ‘Yes, _Sir’_. In fact, I think I prefer ‘Yes, Detective’ or even ‘Detective Inspector’, feel free to shorten that last one to ‘DI’.”

“I thought you were a Police Constable?”

“I am, for now, though I’m over-due a promotion to Sergeant next week. You and your brilliant mind have already gotten me noticed; you’re going to help me rise to the top and I’m going to send you spinning through subspace in return. Now, let’s try this on for size.”

Lestrade straddled Sherlock’s hips and fastened a rather plain dog collar around Sherlock’s neck; it had a bright red tag hanging from it, which he showed him first, that read ‘Under Protection’ on one side and ‘Bitch in Training’ on the other; Sherlock wasn’t sure he cared for that last bit, but he wasn’t about to start arguing now.

“Kneel on the floor.” Lestrade instructed, and Sherlock dropped to his knees, licking his lips suggestively, “Very pretty, but that’s not happening just yet. Now let’s see how well behaved you can be. Say ‘Yes, Detective’.”

“Yes, Detective,” Sherlock replied back, feeling an ache start up in his groin. This shouldn’t be as erotic as it was.

“Now say, ‘Please, Detective’.”

“ _Please_ , Detective,” Sherlock purred.

“Now say ‘I’m a good little slut who’s going to mind his cheek in public, Detective’.”

“I’m… I’m a good little slut who’s going to mind his cheek in public, Detective.” Sherlock spat out, eyes narrowing in annoyance. “Is the slut part necessary? It’s hardly accurate.”

“You sucked me off when you first met me, explain how it’s inaccurate.” Lestrade replied reasonably.

“That was the first time I’d ever done anything sexual with anyone, though I can see how you might have gotten the wrong impression.” Sherlock allowed.

To Sherlock’s surprise the man’s eyes dilated and he swallowed heavily.

“Anyone? Ever?”

“Yes. I’m what you might call a ‘virgin’.” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

He got a slap across his face for his sarcasm, his towel toppling unceremoniously to the floor.

“You’ll end every sentence from here on out with ‘Sir’ or one of my afore mentioned titles,” Lestrade ordered, his voice calm enough that Sherlock realized he wasn’t angry at all, was in fact in complete control.

“Yes, Sir,” Sherlock replied, blushing in shame and panting with desire at the same time.

“Let’s cool off your ardor first. I have a feeling you’ll be sweeter with a bit of release.”

“Oh, _god_ yes… Sir. Detective. Fuck.” Sherlock’s attempts at trying out the title and his own anticipation had his cock leaking pre-come onto the floor.

“Suck a pretty prick, quite a nice size for someone your age and stature. Maybe you’d like to show me how you touch yourself.”

“Not really… er… Sir.”

“That wasn’t a request,” The deep, gravely near whisper sent Sherlock’s hand flying to his prick as he stroked himself fast and hard.

“Slow down, I want to see you work yourself into a frenzy.” Lestrade breathed.

Sherlock slowed his manipulations to accent the subtle twist of his wrist as he pulled the foreskin over his cockhead. He gave his palm a quick lick and squeezed himself firmly before continuing his strong strokes. He met Lestrade’s eyes, willing himself to look sensual and offering himself up with a delicate lick of his lips and gentle gyration of his hips. Lestrade’s eyes were lidded in obvious desire, his hard cock a clear outline in his trousers, but he leaned casually against the door. Sherlock realized with a gasp that the man was blocking his only exit; the windows being sealed shut, and his movements unintentionally sped up.

“Like me watching you, do you?”

“Yeeess!”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, Det… Detective!”

“Stop.”

Sherlock’s eyes flew open and his hand stilled on his cock.

“Put your hands behind your head, entwine your fingers, and hold them there for five minutes.”

Sherlock did as he was told, frowning in frustration. He had been near culmination and resented being pulled back. Was this the orgasm denial Lestrade had mentioned? Perhaps he should change his response to ‘no’.

“You are being punished, Sherlock, do you know why?”

“I… I didn’t use your title,” Sherlock’s lust fogged mind struggled.

“Correct. Your punishment is to wait there while I touch myself. You won’t be allowed to resume touching yourself until I say; you will not speak, flirt, or make eye contact with me. If you can think up an appropriate response when I tell you to speak then I’ll give you a reward, but you’ll have to have thought of it yourself.”

Sherlock’s brain flew, accessing as many memories as possible on his dorm mates and their sexual deviancies. He recalled movies he’d seen, prostitutes on the street, and even a few lewd encounters he’d stumbled across while homeless. Nothing seemed to fit what he understood of this man and his preferences.

Meanwhile, Lestrade had removed his own aching member from his uniform pants and was stroking himself slowly from root to tip. Sherlock’s eyes remained locked on that twitching, leaking tip, and he barely restrained himself from licking his lips again. His mouth watered at the thought of tasting his ejaculate again, and Sherlock found himself blushing even more than he already was.

“Time’s up. You can speak again. What do you have to say?”

“I’m sorry, Detective Inspector, thank you for my punishment. May I please suck your cock, Sir?” Sherlock asked, combining a few frantic thoughts into one hopefully accurate assessment.

“The correct answer was ‘thank you for my punishment, Sir’, but that’s certainly close enough. No, you may not suck my cock, but I am going to cum all over that pretty little face of yours. Come closer. On your knees, still.”

Sherlock inched closer, carefully not touching himself because he wasn’t sure he was allowed to yet, and tried to ignore how much his cock had twitched at the thought of this man climaxing over his face.

_This should be degrading; this_ is _degrading. Oh, fuck, I’m loving it._

“Shut your eyes when I tell you I’m about to come, but otherwise I want you watching me closely. This is how I prefer to be touched, and you’re going to need to know that.”

Sherlock memorized every one of Lestrade’s most subtle movements, and when he was ordered to finish him off his hands shot up eagerly, one around his shaft and the other fondling his bollocks. Lestrade moaned contentedly and Sherlock kept his rhythm the same until ordered to speed up. This was wonderful. He didn’t have to think, just observe and obey. How had he ever lived without handing himself over to someone else before? Even the punishment had been exciting to an extent, though he imagined he would have felt guilty had he been more attached to this man and sorrowful about disappointing him.

“Coming!” Lestrade panted, and Sherlock closed his eyes as hot ropes of come striped his face.

Sherlock kept his mouth shut, too, though some of the fluids landed on his lips. He wanted to taste it, but he wasn’t sure if he should or not. He swallowed as his mouth watered as though at the thought of a good meal. Lestrade reached out and ran his fingers through the spunk in a scooping motion.

“Open,” Lestrade ordered and Sherlock eagerly sucked the substance from his fingers, moaning a bit when he pulled them out, but he was only reaching for more further up on Sherlock’s forehead, “Mmmm such a good little bitch.”

Sherlock didn’t know how to respond to that other than to pant wantonly and squirm a bit, hoping his own arousal wouldn’t be neglected. His hands were clenched into fists at his side, fingernails biting into his palms, as he tried to restrain himself from frantically touching his aching cock.

“I can’t believe you stayed hard all through that, even the punishment part. You’re really hot and bothered, aren’t you?”

“Perhaps this bitch is in heat, Detective,” Sherlock suggested with a smirk. He was still having difficulty with the ‘bitch’ rhetoric, but he supposed it set the scene.

Lestrade laughed, “Well, then I’m just going to have to breed you, aren’t I? Up on the bed, face down, arse up.”

Sherlock bolted for the bed, wondering if the man intended on fucking him so soon after his own orgasm. He was both excited and terrified at the idea, and soon a cold, lube drenched, finger was circling his pucker.

“You cleaned well, yeah?”

“Yes, quite thoroughly… Sir.”

“You shoot up with dirty needles?”

“Mmmnnn. No. The… The church on 5th provides us with clean… oh, god!”

Lestrade chuckled as Sherlock wriggled on his finger, squirming uncomfortably as his body was penetrated for the first time. Lestrade then pulled out a bit and slid it further in until Sherlock felt his palm on his cheeks. When he pulled out again it was to slip in a second finger, far too early in Sherlock’s opinion as it burned a good deal, but once the digits had scissored and twisted about for a moment he crooked them and Sherlock saw stars.

“Do you want more?” Lestrade asked, his voice a sultry growl.

“Please, Sir!” Sherlock panted, his hand flying to his cock. Lestrade slapped it before he could reach his aching member.

“Please what?”

“Please give me more, Detective!” Sherlock was in awe of the pulsing sensation rushing through the _inside_ of his body. He had to follow this through, it was the most intense feeling he’d ever had outside of his fix.

“I want to see if you can come without touching yourself. I’m betting you can, all that pent up frustration just begging to be let out. I’m going to spank you while I finger your prostate, but this isn’t a punishment. You’re going to like it. If you don’t, you say your break word, yeah? Do try not to wimp out on me, though.”

“Yes, just, please, please, please!”

Lestrade ignored his dropping the proper title in favor of bringing his hand down sharply on Sherlock’s flank. Sherlock yelped, bucked, and then screamed in pleasure as his cock emptied onto the bedspread below him. Lestrade milked his prostate while delivering a few more sharp slaps to the bucking young man on the bed. Sherlock collapsed onto his side, panting and trembling, as Lestrade stepped away from him and wiped off his fingers on a handful of tissues.

“Well, how was that, then?”

“Perfect… sir…” Sherlock panted.

“How do you show your gratitude?” Lestrade chided gently.

“Thank you, Detective Inspector.”

“For?”

“Fucking me with your fingers and spanking my arse, Sir.”

“Very good. Now, you may stand while you clean yourself up and put these clothes on. You can even keep them when we’re done here.”


	4. BDSM

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies on this one. I totally thought I posted this chapter a while ago, but it turns out I only wrote half or maybe lost some memory at some point and never posted it at all. More to come, and it will get naughty soon ;D

Lestrade dropped a plastic bag onto the bed and Sherlock shakily rose up on his hands to peer inside. He had expected S&M clothes, made of leather with lots of metal hoops, but they were ordinary clothes. They wouldn’t fit him well, but neither had his own clothes and these were a good deal nicer even if they were clearly from a second hand store; they were still name brand and in very good condition.

Lestrade led him along by a chain hooked to his collar, with masks in place, as they entered a club with loud thumping music playing outside. Once inside Sherlock got a brief view of a dance floor with people dancing on a stage to rather violent music, wearing obscene amounts of leather and piercings. This was apparently a front since he and Lestrade headed downstairs to a 60’s coffee shop like atmosphere. There was still a stage, but this one was being utilized in a completely different fashion as a woman in tight business clothes was being spanked over a large, muscular man’s knee. Her grey slacks were down around her ankles, but her hot pink thong was still in place.

Sherlock’s breath caught at the sight and he froze in place as his mind vividly incorporated himself and Lestrade in those roles. It through Sherlock for a loop because the atmosphere implied poerty would be read and small drums would be beat… not people. A subtle tug at his leash got him to put one foot in front of the other again, and Sherlock soon found himself being directed to kneel on a cushion beside an armchair that Lestrade sank down into with a contented sigh. A waitress headed over and he ordered a latte for himself and Sherlock without asking his preference.

“Actually, I…” Sherlock started, but the woman gave him a startled look.

“Shut it,” Lestrade snapped, gripping his hair firmly and giving it a painful tug.

The woman’s eyes shot back to Lestrade’s chest and as Sherlock watched he realized she had never once made eye contact, but she did not appear afraid of him. Quite the contrary as her mouth trembled a bit in excitement over Sherlock’s rough treatment.

“He’s still in training, first day actually. Ignore him,” Lestrade ordered, and there was no denying it was an order.

The woman nodded and her eyes shifted over to Lestrade’s far shoulder. Sherlock had ceased to exist for her.

“Fascinating,” Sherlock breathed, but they both ignored him as the woman repeated their order, gave a gentle curtsy, and then hurried away.

“The way you behave is reflected back on me,” Lestrade informed him, “For now we’re both masked and in a very tame, unprofessional, setting. In the future I’ll expect you to behave yourself better. You don’t want to know how you’ll be punished if you embarrass me in front of my friends.”

“Am I allowed to speak to you… Sir?”

“Yes, most of the time, and there will be times you can speak to others. You’ll learn the protocol as we go along. For now limit yourself to questions directed at me. If you have preferences as to food and drink I expect you to tell me ahead of time, in private. Allergies are a different matter. Use your safe word if I’m _ever_ doing anything that might endanger your life.”

“Yes, Sir. If this is tame and unprofessional, what do you consider to be the opposite, Detective?”

“The clubs I usually frequent with my lovers. This is a brave knew world, Sherlock, with different rules and behavior codes than even your privileged upper-class parents would be familiar with. Mummy, daddy, and big brother Mycroft would never set foot in the sort of places I’m going to take you to. They wouldn’t have the stomach, and they wouldn’t be welcome. Do you have the stomach?”

“Yes, sir,” Sherlock replied, and tucked away Lestrade’s knowledge of his family. He recognized the undertones: I _know your family. Don’t spread my secrets around or they’ll find out where you are._

The woman on the stage was unceremoniously dumped out of the man’s lap and people around laughed and clapped a bit. Lestrade snorted and leaned to the side to whisper into Sherlock’s ear, his breath stirring his hair and sending a shiver up Sherlock’s spine.

“This place is pretty much for people who do this for fun. I’d say 90% of them don’t understand the lifestyle I’m going to bring you into, and most likely they haven’t the foggiest idea what a real scene is like. They come here to unwind after work, nice and safe under their masks, and get a little tension off their shoulders. Tame.”

“What _is_ the lifestyle like, Sir?” Sherlock asked, wondering what he was getting himself into.

“It’s different for everyone, but for me it’s about control. Nothing happens that I haven’t planned out and put into motion: in theory, of course. Life is unpredictable, but when that happens I handle them. My lovers do what I say, when I say to do it, and they come often and hard.”

Sherlock was momentarily speechless, his ear feeling frozen when the heat of Lestrade’s breath left him bereft as the man straightened back up and thanked the waitress who had brought their latte’s over. Sherlock’s was handed to Lestrade as well, but he wasn’t fool enough to reach across him to take it from the table on the other side of the chair. There was a coaster on the ground to his right, so apparently collared people were expectedto drink, but he was beginning to understand that there was a difference between _expected_ and _allowed_.

It made him hard as hell just thinking about it.

“Sir? What does all this mean? The collar? The orders? The expectations? The rules? What am I to you? You mentioned lovers, but I get the impression that you haven’t any at the moment. In fact, I’ve already deduced you do not. You’re referring to past relationships. Is this temporary? If so, how temporary? Tonight? A week? Until we get bored?”

“Slow down, deep breath,” Lestrade’s orders were softly spoken and accompanied by a gentle hand touching the back of his head.

“Sorry, Sir,” Sherlock replied, realizing he’d become breathless during his whispered questioning.

“It’s fine. If you weren’t a bit excited – or apprehensive – I wouldn’t be interested. Let’s see if I can recall all those questions now… I’ve already mentioned this is about BDSM. You’re probably thinking S&M from some cheesy movie you’ve seen. It’s nothing like that. It’s a lifestyle. Compare it to a marriage in regards to how it changes your life and your view of the world. You already know my marriage is an open one; so no, this isn’t going to be permanent unless we both decide it should be.

“First off, I’ll jet the second I catch you high or find out you’re using unless you come to me and ask for help first. In reverse, if you want out you just say so: no repercussions. This isn’t an abusive relationship. I’m not going to make you stay if you’re unhappy and I won’t threaten you with anything you won’t enjoy in the long run. If you don’t like where all this is going it can end tonight, it can end now, but I have a feeling it’s not going to.

Second, that collar means you’re in training as my submissive, and you’ve already shown signs of being a masochist so we’ll throw that in, too. Submissive means you do as your told and you’ll be rewarded for it; you don’t and you’ll be punished. It means you follow any rules I give you without question unless you feel your safety is at risk. I prefer to live it 24/7, though we can discuss that if you aren’t up for it. 24/7 means you don’t stop when I’m out of sight, either, and I’ll expect you to report any mistakes to me next time we meet. I realize you might have other lovers, if they give you contradicting orders I want to know about it so we can work it out. For now, I’d prefer it if you don’t have any other Masters besides me. You’re in training and someone is _very_ likely to take advantage of that.

“Let’s see… I got off topic a bit… Ah! I suppose I should break down BDSM for you,” Lestrade said with a sigh, “As much as I can verbally, at least. Most of it really needs to be experienced. Bondage – Discipline – Dominance – Submission – Sadism – Masochism. So BDDSSM, really, but no one uses that mouthful. You’ve already experienced several aspects of what I enjoy, and you’ve enjoyed it too: you admit that you do. I’m warning you now that that was tame, too. I’ll amp it up slowly so you can adjust and don’t hit bottom, but you’ll need to communicate with me. Beg me when you want more, ask for what you specifically want, and most of all tell me if you _need_ to stop. I’ll respect you more for it, not less. I’ve had subs tell me to stop the second I gave them a tiny tap on the bottom, I’ll tell you right now our relationships didn’t end because of it. We worked up to pain or we dismissed it entirely and focused on other things. Eventually most of them ended up screaming in pleasure under my cane, and no, I don’t mean my dick when I say cane.”

Sherlock sat there, staring at him and wondering how on earth he should take all of that. Someone off to the right had overheard Lestrade and was gaping at him. Sherlock scowled at the person, feeling possessive for some reason, and they looked away quickly. Lestrade chuckled and gave Sherlock a gentle caress again.

“Then I’m not… this isn’t some sort of dog roleplay, Sir?” Sherlock asked, his nose wrinkled a bit.

“No,” Lestrade laughed, “Damn, is that what you were thinking? Well, I hope you were planning on begging because that drives me wild.”

“May I _please_ have my latte, Sir?” Sherlock asked, batting his eyes coquettishly.

Lestrade smiled approvingly and passed it to him. Sherlock sipped the bland substance – he much preferred sweet and bold – grateful for the caffeine and fat content if nothing else. Lestrade stroked a hand through his hair and asked him what kind of food he liked. Sherlock rattled off a sandwhich he’d seen listed under specials on the way in and Lestrade hailed the waitress. While the PC was ordering their food, this time with Sherlock’s choice integrated, a young man was hesitantly stepping up on the stage. He looked nervous and was being prodded along by someone who was clearly his boyfriend.

Sherlock watched the boyfriend and the Dom on stage discuss what they wanted done and then the young man was told to kneel with his hands behind his head. Sherlock watched with his mouth slightly open as the boy was hit with a group of ropes tied together at one end. They made a rather loud sound, but he didn’t think they’d hurt over much based on their design and how hard the Dom was swinging them. The young man jumped and yelped the first too times, hissed and grunted the second, and soon fell to moaning appreciatively. When he started to show signs of arousal the owner called a stop to it and Lestrade frowned.

“Vanilla morons. Waste of time, this place. I should have taken you to The Rope. Ah, well, last time I take a tip from that particular Domme,” Lestrade took a bite of his sandwich and Sherlock’s stomach growled loudly.

“May I have my sandwich, Sir?”

“Certainly, Sherlock,” Lestrade lowered the plate to the floor with a smirk and Sherlock tried not to devour it like the dog he resembled.


	5. PAIN AND CHOCOLATE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Squeeeeee, I get to ride this puppy into town! How honoured I am to be taking over this fic. It was lovely to be offered the chance. Now, here is some porn....
> 
> Queenoftheuniverse.
> 
> In which Sherlock gets beaten and loves it.

Five: 

Pain and chocolate

 

Sherlocks eyes opened wide at the array of things lined up on the hotels' bed. Now he knew what had been in the sports bag Lestrade had lugged up the stairs. Some items he knew vaguely from porn and listening and magazines, some were obviously penis shaped and so, he deduced, would be used as a penis would, but some...well, what was that wheely thing and that leather thing in the shape of a tie?

Lestrade put his hand to the back of Sherlocks neck. It was big, warm, calloused and felt nice. Then he pushed slightly and Sherlock knew to fall to his knees. Even in jeans and a T-shirt he felt naked all of a sudden. And his eyes could not tear away from the things on the bed.

"So, Sherlock, take a good look. Anything jump out at you straight away?" Lestrade asked, stroking the back of Sherlocks neck with one teasing thumb.

"Your handcuffs." Sherlock said. Lestrade bent forward and passed the shiny metal cuffs to  Sherlock. The boy took them in his long thin fingers. They clinked enticingly and, as he opened them they made a lovely ratchety sound that made him shiver.

"Imagine that cold hard metal around your delicate wrists." Lestrade murmured in his ear.

"I don't have to, you already-"

Lestrade clamped his warm meaty hand over Sherlocks mouth and the black haired boy gasped in through his nose. He murfled in surprise and his cock thickened in appreciation of this very unexpected display of dominance over his person.

"I see we can add hand gagging to your list." Lestrade said, in his ear again. The Detective ran his thumbnail up the seam of Sherlocks jeans where his cock bulged temptingly. Sherlock moaned, pushed his hips out and fluttered his eyes closed. The handcuffs clinked in his now trembling fingers. 

Lestrade compounded the thrill of Sherlocks new handgagging discovery by leaving his hand over the boys mouth and clicking one of the bracelets tight around one of his bony wrists. Sherlock swallowed slowly. Then he tipped his head back to look up at Greg, eyes huge and lusty and the focus of Lestrades gaze now that pouty, distracting mouth was covered.

Sherlock lifted his cuffed wrist, and then the other uncuffed one, up over his head. 

"Please..." he begged, the word hot and garbled against Lestrades palm. "Please Sir..."

Oh he was learning! Lestrade clipped the other cuff to Sherlocks wrist and yanked the chain twice, hard. Sherlocks eyes closed again and he moaned. Lovely, how his mind began to shrink to this, this room, this minute, this man above him.

Lestrade pushed his restrained wrists down in front of him.

"Very good Sherlock." he said, still hot and whispery in his ear. "What else do you like here?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and focused once again on the bed. Toys and weapons all lined up. So many! What would give him the right sort of pain to make him go to this subspace place Lestrade promised. He saw a shiny cane with a rubber dipped handle that looked inviting, and a small flogger with suede wangs that might sting, and a beautiful wooden paddle, unstained but a lovely patina of use on the handle and square surface. The one next to it had holes and the one next to THAT had studs...oh yes, blood. Lovely blood-

Lestrade shook him.

"Sherlock, what do you need?" he asked, and took his hand away from the subs mouth.

"Pain, Sir, I need pain. Please..."

Lestrade picked up the well loved paddle. As he hefted it in his hand Sherlock gasped, just a little.

"No Sir, please...not enough damage."

Lestrade turned to Sherlock and raised one eyebrow.

"You want marks, slut, to show the world who you belong to, who did this to you, and how much you loved being beaten at his hand?"

Sherlock nodded and whimpered and swallowed and closed his eyes, all at once.

"Please..." he said, husky voice barely above a whisper.

Lestrade regarded Sherlock. He was already sure of the boys submissive tendencies and suspected he got off on pain. Lestrade knew if he took him there slowly he would learn to love the pain. Really love it. But slow...maybe that was too much for Sherlock. He seemed excited at this new discovery about himself and Lestrade suspected he may be a natural masochist. Praise ye Gods if this were true!

He put down the paddle, paused, and lifted the shiny cane with the rubber dipped handle. He hefted it, and then swooped it through the air, letting it make that whoosh sound he loved so much. 

Sherlocks eyes flew open and his lips parted. He met the grinning face of Lestrade and nodded. 

"Please...please...Sir, yes...that one...please!"

"Over the bed, Sherlock, now." Lestrade demanded, sweeping the dildos and weapons and gags and other shinies to the side.  Sherlock rose up and elegantly draped his upper half over the end of the bed, his cuffed hands pushed above him to grip the covers. He turned his head to the side to catch Lestrades eye, only to gasp.

Lestrade had removed his shirt and shoes. He stood in his trousers only, his well defined chest rippling as his muscled arm swished the cane. Oh this was going to hurt, look how strong those forearms were! Sherlock made a tiny sound. He needed this! This was so exciting! Better than any anticipation of drug hit, better than the rush of cocaine in his veins, better than the excitement of the ritual of preparing his body for the quietness that drugs had, until now, given him.

Greg stepped forward.

"Remember your safe words?"

"Clock for slow, Basket for stop."

"Don't be a hero, use them." Lestrade demanded. Then one of his hands was undoing Sherlocks jeans, pushing them down to his knees. There was a slight pause, and then the pants joined them. Sherlocks plush little arse was revealed, perfect and unmarked.

Sherlocks breathing increased and his heartbeat began to thud in his chest. He hid his eyes in his bicep.

"Breathe, Sherlock." Lestrade said from behind him and tapped the cool cane on the boys arse cheek. 

The strike, when it came, was sudden. The pain was not as bad as Sherlock was expecting, and then...it blossomed. The sting radiated out from the harsh line and made goosebumps flitter across his skin. He made no sound but stiffened his whole body.

"Good boy." Lestrade said. Sherlock could not speak but Lestrade was not expecting anything from the boy except, later, moans of pleasure.

He snapped another blow across the boys other cheek and Sherlock jerked a bit. Lestrade was certain he heard a small whimper. He used his big hand to rub Sherlocks arse cheeks, loving the beautiful welts that we're beginning to rise.

"So pretty Sherlock. So pretty!" he cooed.

He lightly tapped the cane a few times on Sherlocks arse and struck hard again. Before Sherlock could react too much, Lestrade tapped the cane again, and struck hard. Sherlock grunted and jerked. The pain was more intense so close together, and the goosebumps once again flitted over his skin. He wiggled his arse a bit to dissipate the sting, but then Lestrade was tapping the cane again. He tensed himself for the blow that snapped on his arse cheek and he moaned. 

Now the pain and stripes were melding together. Lestrade was laying a pattern carefully because he loved to make things symmetrical and, as a result, he was making Sherlocks arse red and white with welts. The sight made Lestrades mouth water.

He upped the ante. Tapped at a spot, but snapped the cane elsewhere, and tapped again straight away. Sherlock was unable to tell if the cane would strike where the warning taps were, or somewhere else. Now the taps and blows were coming quite fast and Sherlock began to dance and rut against the bed. His arms tensed out along the bed and he fisted at the covers. He alternately buried his head in his arm, the covers, or lifted his head to gasp and arch. His cock was hard and he found himself rubbing it on the end of the bed, loving the painful friction the rough cover gave him to counterbalance the furnace that was his arse.

He began to babble words then, and Lestrade realised happily that Sherlock was sinking into subspace.

"Oh Sir, that hurts me!" he began, in a voice wrecked with pain. He rutted and arched, eyes screwed shut. He whimpered into his arm then, and bit at his own skin as Lestrade snapped the cane against him again and again, the same strength behind each blow, teasing taps before hand.

"Hurts!" Sherlock gasped. "Hurts me so much Sir!"

Lestrade grunted, his own cock hard in his trousers. To see this pretty boy writhing under his cane sent shocks of pleasure through to his balls. 

"Yes, Sherlock, so beautiful!"

"Sir...oh Sir, hurt me please, more, harder!"

Lestrade stopped pre-tapping and began to snap lines in Sherlocks arse, using the welt lines already there to aim with. Sherlock howled in pain, fucked the end of the bed, and began to cry.

"Oh oh my God my God fuck fuck fuck me that hurts me so much oh my FUCK! FUCK!FFFFFUUUUCK....."

Lestrade ground his teeth together but then he noticed Sherlocks tears and gasps were changing. The pain was becoming too much but the stupid fool was refusing to say his safe word. 

He threw the cane down and grabbed Sherlocks beautiful hair. He yanked the boys head back and hissed in his ear.

"What did I tell you about using your safe word you irresponsible slut?" 

Sherlock could not speak. He was gasping for air, tears streaming from his eyes, gasping and moaning. Lestrade pulled him back to a kneeling position making him howl as his tortured arse made contact with his heels. Lestrade then swooped around to the front of Sherlock, opening his own jeans at the same time. He popped his cock out and rammed it into Sherlocks gasping mouth.

Without preamble he fucked Sherlocks tender throat, taking him for his own pleasure. Sherlock moaned, loving the way he was just a hot mouth for Lestrade to use, and not gently either. His whole being was just singing pain and choking air as Lestrade thrust his cock deep inside him. He gagged a bit, forcing more tears from his eyes, and the desperate sound he made caused Lestrade to growl. 

Then the Detective took Sherlocks aching, weeping cock in his fist and began to roughly jerk the boy off. Sherlocks grunts took on a high pitched desperate quality and he fucked into Lestrades fist. The feeling of being taken in his mouth, hands restrained, and his cock being forcefully jerked off made him loose his mind.

"Close...close..." Lestrade hissed, hips snapping into Sherlocks mouth. This was all the warning Sherlock got, before Lestrade arched into Sherlocks body and let his come force its way down the boys throat. Rope after rope streamed from his cock, choking Sherlock and making him freeze with a delicious fear. This fear of never getting a breath sent his own cock into a frenzy and he came, spilling over Lestrades fist and onto the carpet, gagging and coughing, face bright red.

Lestrade withdrew his cock and Sherlock flopped to his side, panting and curling into himself, cuffed wrists huddled into his chest. He was crying and pulling in air, shaking and trembling. His arse was on fire and his throat ached and he had the taste of another mans come all over his tongue. He felt dirty, and used, and roughed up...and it was the most wonderful feeling he had ever had.

He was all floaty. He felt drugged. He felt high. He felt on top of the world!

Vaguely he felt Lestrade divesting him of his filthy clothes. There was a warm flannel cleaning him, and then a fluffy hotel robe was put over his shoulders. A cup was pushed to his mouth.

"Drink." Greg demanded and Sherlock did. He gulped the water down quickly and felt better for it. Then squares of dark chocolate were pressed onto his tongue.

"Suck." Lestrade said. "Slowly. It's good for you."

Sherlock once again obeyed. His trembling settled and his gasps diminished and he was astonished to find himself wrapped in Detective Lestrades strong arms, being rocked and kissed and patted. 

"You did so well Sherlock, so well, I am so proud of you. So beautiful, so pretty, so willing to please me. Good boy, Sherlock, good boy..."

What was this? Praise? Wasn't Lestrade the Dom, why would he care about Sherlock now, feed him chocolate, hug him and....oh, it was so nice to be cared for like this. His floaty feeling became more like the not-there feeling his drugs had given him but with no chemical after taste. It was...pleasant.

"What....what are you doing?" Sherlock whispered, voice husky. "Sir...." he added.

"Aftercare, Sherlock, to stop you dropping."

"Dropping?"

"Sometimes after a session you can get very depressed. All those very intense feelings all at once... If I care for you, hold you, feed you chocolate, you are less likely to drop. Now hush. How do you feel?"

Sherlock smiled dreamily.

"Fantastic, Sir....I feel fantastic."


	6. SAFETY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock runs to Lestrade for help.

Six

SAFETY

Sherlock was confused about this aftercare situation. He sat against a dirty wall in an abandoned warehouse, away from other people. It was a place he had known well, back when he had been using, but it had been cleared out by vice weeks ago. The sun was setting and all the people were scurrying home to warm dinners and loving arms and he was....sitting in the cold, in the dark, thinking.

As far as he had known, Doms took what they wanted from a sub, and the sub had no choice. The poor submissive was roughed up and fucked, then the Dom wandered off into the sunset. Sherlock had no idea Lestrade would hold him, kiss him, make sure he was fed and watered. It was....confusing. He adored being so loved, even for those moments. That, too, could become addictive...

And the pain of the cane....wow, he had no idea. He shifted on his arse now, and felt the delicious bruises burst in pain over his skin. Lovely pain. He had taken two parts of a broken mirror and checked out the damage done to his arse and shivered in excitement when he had seen the explosion of colour and lines that marked his beautiful flesh. And remembering the sight of that strong, older body, laying into him methodically, muscles rippling...Sherlock shivered again. 

All he knew was he NEEDED, and he had not needed since he had been strung out for three days during a money drought. Strange, he had nearly whored himself out then. He wondered if he would have felt as fulfilled as he did now, as the slut of "Detective Inspector" Greg Lestrade. He knew, deep down, he would have just felt dirty in a very bad way not gorgeously filthy as he did now. 

Lestrade needed him, as he needed Lestrade. There was no domination without submission...but how many other willing sluts were there out in the sunset of London town, looking for a commanding silver fox like Greg...Sherlock's heart clenched. 

He had to make sure nobody else got him! What had Lestrade said? Stay clean..he could do that. 

It would be simply easy now he knew he could replace artificial chemical reactions in his body with naturally occurring chemicals. Pain and lust endorphins, and the lovely whiteness that came with being told what to do, not having to think, not having to decide, even over his own body. Bliss. Pure bloody bliss.

#

Greg Lestrade rubbed his hand over his face. It had been a long five days chasing the murderer of a body found in a sewer pipe. As far as he could tell there were no clues. No doubt Sherlock could have solved it but Sherlock was nowhere to be found. Lestrade was only a tiny bit worried, Sherlock was a street rat and could take care of himself, but he was sure the boy would have come sniffing about for more fun times. The fact he had not was mildly worrying. And as a Dom he had needs. Needs he could get fulfilled at clubs or online fetish meeting forums, but he was so focused on Sherlock that all other options seemed unworthy. How tasty it was to have that boy cuffed and crying as he beat him. How much he had just wanted to ram his prick into the boys virgin hole after he had taken the cane so well. Lestrade had a feeling Sherlock would have taken it too, but afterwards he may have felt awful. In fact, that could even be the reason Sherlock had disappeared. Too many emotions. Maybe he had dropped slightly and was holed up somewhere licking his wounds. Not literally of course.

Greg stood up and stretched. Every vertebra of his back clicked and he groaned in pleasure. He supposed he should go home, but his wife was out again and he was not in the mood to go home to an empty house. He decided the pub would be good, maybe get a counter meal. 

There was a gentle tap on his door and a young constable poked his head in.

"Excuse me Sir, there is a young man here. Says he can only speak to you. About the body in the pipe. If you ask me he seems high but he insists you know him and will speak to him."

"Oh...show him in." Greg sighed. He could put off going home for ten minutes or so at the very least.

He should have known it would be Sherlock. The thin man swept into the room, rodent-bright eyes darting as he closed the door. He grasped his fingers in front of him, jittery as fuck. Lestrades eyes slitted. The boy was filthy, his hoody even torn along one arm, his sneakers streaked in rusty mud.

"Sherlock...the fuck...are you high?"

"...I cannot stop thinking Lestrade, my brain is firing, I cannot stop, I don't know what is wrong with me but if you look into the pipe body's business you will find a secret bank account for spending on Balanese Boys and his wife found out and she poisoned him then panicked and his his body and ran away to Majorca and... Why am I so manic, these bruises you put on me should have lasted, Lestrade, my....my mind my mind my MIND!" he clutched at his head, fingers tearing into his usually beautiful hair gone greasy with lack of care.

"ON YOUR KNEES!"

Sherlock dropped like a stone, sobbing and scrabbling at his scalp. Lestrade slapped Sherlocks hands away and replaced them with one of his own, twisting into the bushy back of the boys head. He tore Sherlock's head back and then slapped his pale cheek one harsh and quick slap. Sherlock gasped but was still manically jabbering, so Lestrade hit him again and then again. Sherlock's sobs became gasps and he visibly calmed himself, the heat of his abused cheek sinking in where his thoughts could not.

Lestrade shook Sherlock by the scruff of his hair.

"Calm down Sherlock. Calm DOWN!" he demanded, and slapped him again, one final time, extra hard, letting the boys hair go as he did so.  Sherlock crumpled to his side, shivering and sniveling but calming his breathing even as Lestrade looked on.

Lestrade crouched by Sherlock and gently used one finger to move a lock of the boys inky hair from his now flushed face.

"What happened to you Sherlock?" he whispered. Sherlocks bruised eyes were closed and his mouth was wet with tears and gasping. 

"I got scared," he eventually whispered, opening his gem-green eyes to look deeply at Lestrade. "I got scared...after you...you looked after me."

"The after care?"

"Yes. It felt so good to be looked after like that," Sherlock said. "I was not....prepared for it."

"So you shot up?" Lestrade spat angrily. Sherlock shook his head desperately.

"No no God no..." he said, scrunching his eyes closed. "It was pills...some pills..."

"Still drugs Sherlock. I told you our deal. Stay clean and we can play."

"I tried. I tried so hard..." Sherlock whispered, putting one of his hands to his pulsing cheek where Greg had struck him. His fingernails were filthy, Greg noticed, and he had some small cuts on his knuckles. His swollen knuckles...

Greg grabbed the boys thin wrist to still the hand and stared.

"Did you get in a fight?" 

"....yes...they were trying to touch me."

"Touch you?"

"Fuck me."

Gregs lips went thin.

"And you fought?"

"Yes. I didn't think it would feel the same as with you." Sherlock said, and he struggled to sit up. He grasped at Greg's lapels. "They promised me cocaine if I blew them. Promised me morphine and cocaine and heroin and....beer. All I had to do was submit to them. They said that. 'Submit to us slut and you can get anything you want.' but.....I know how it feels to submit Sir and it did not feel the same as with you. So I fought them. And after I got away I could not sleep I just wanted to sleep and forget because I was so frightened that this...with you....should really be like that....with them...."

Greg's heart pounded in his chest. It was hard enough when nice folk found out their submissive tendencies. If they found the right place, the right Dom, then their path to fulfillment was assured. 

But to be a street rat, new to sex, new to feelings, and new to submission after a lifetime of looking out just for himself, being his own boss, looking after his own needs, would be terrifying. And then to have his submission shoved on his face by strangers with candy, who probably had no idea how far Sherlock had come along the road to being a good submissive, must have been awful.

"What did you take Sherlock....?" Greg asked him then.

"They were pink. I found them behind a toilet in the Green Swan. I was hiding from the men there. There was a little bag. I took them dry. I wanted to sleep. Why can't I...why can't I sleep?"

"Sherlock, can you stand?"

"Not sure...."

Greg helped the boy to his feet. Christ, he weighed no more than a gnat! Then together they walked out of the station and down to the back car park. Greg put Sherlock into his car, buckled him up safely and slid into the drivers seat. Sherlock curled up, and rocked slightly. 

Greg paused. He had no idea what to do next. The only option was to take him back to his house for a shower and a hot meal. His wife would be out for most of the night, maybe all night, but would come home for a shower in the morning before work. It would be a close thing but Sherlock needed help.

He had come to Greg and Greg felt responsible. 

Dammit, even if he was not Sherlocks official Dom he still felt responsible for the boys health and safety.

As he drove he began to put together a plan to get Sherlock off the streets, clean, and back kneeling at his feet where he would finally be loved, cared for, and safe.


	7. TEA AND TOAST

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade looks after his boy.

SEVEN

TEA AND TOAST

Showering and shampooing and cleaning Sherlock should not have felt as good as it did, but Lestrade loved every second. It was this part of being someone's Dom that he missed so much. Giving love. The cherishing of the human who willingly gave himself over to Lestrade to beat and hurt and make do filthy sexy things. 

And for his part Sherlock liked it too. The shower was so warm and Lestrades hands so commanding. And the feeling of all the filth leaving him, the street grease AND the filth of what those men had implied, was simply marvellous. He knew he groaned at some point when Leatrade massaged his head and he kind of sobbed too. He had....feelings. So many feelings all swishing inside him like a see-through washing machine.

Lestrade dried him and dressed him a pair of his own navy sweats and a clean white T-shirt. He spent a long time drying Sherlocks hair, and detangling it with his fingers. He adored the boys inky curls, good for grabbing, lovely to run his fingers through. When the hair was merely damp he got him settled in the spare bed with a cup of tea. But the poor boy was asleep before he could even take one sip.

When his wife came home that morning he told her one of his street informers had stayed the night. She shrugged. 

"I always wondered when you would start bringing your work home with you." she said, then showered, dressed for work and left, without even peeking in the spare room. Greg could not help but sigh at the sudden loneliness this caused to well up in his chest.

He beat this down by calling in to work again, volunteering for night shift. Then he set about calling in favours until he had a lovely bedsit for Sherlock to move into and a few cold cases for the boy to solve for a bit of cash.

Then he made a cup of tea and sat at his kitchen table. He wondered how far this could go with Sherlock, how far he could take the boy, what he would become off drugs, on cases, and at his feet.

Suddenly, he was there. Long and lean in his sweats and shirt, hair glossy and tousled, eyes an inexplicable shade of golden and green. He stared at Greg. Simply stared.

Then, he stepped forward, slid to his knees and placed his forehead on Gregs thigh.

"Thank you Sir. Thank you thank you thank you..."

Gregs throat closed. He laid one hand on Sherlocks head and fisted those curls slightly. Sherlock sobbed. Greg tightened his grip and Sherlock sobbed again, trembling. 

"Please...please Sir....make me yours I need you I cannot do this on my own!" he begged wetly, his hot puffs of breath brushing Leatrades thigh.

"Shush Sherlock, my pretty one. Be quiet." he crooned. "Christ boy. You have me...." 

Sherlock sobbed wordlessly and Greg finished his tea.

"Get up Boy, and make yourself a cup of tea. You and I have a busy day ahead of us, so you will want feeding too. Eat. I am going to have a quick shower and a shave. Be ready to leave in fifteen minutes."

Sherlock lept to his feet and into the kitchen, flicking the jug on.

"Yes Sir." he said, getting his tears and trembling under control. Greg could not resist crossing the room to grab behind the boys hair again, tilting his head and kissing him. Just once. Then he left the room

Sherlock pressed his fingers to his lips, and then shook himself to make toast and tea, just like Sir had asked him to.

#


	8. A STREET-RATS TALE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock lets Lestrade inside his head a little.
> 
> (I am not sure if Strangeways is even operating anymore, but I wished to pay homagé to the Smiths album "Strangeways here we come").
> 
> Queenoftheuniverse.

EIGHT

A STREET-RATS TALE

Sherlock loved his bedsit. He loved its silence, it's smallness, it's safeness, it's cleaness. He loved the bed, the kitchenette, the tiny shower, the small window that looked out onto other towers like his. He was aware he now lived on an estate that had been built in the seventies and filled with people who had scraped themselves off the streets and wanted to live clean, and some who lived off the suffering of others.

Mostly, though, he loved it because Greg made it happen. Paid the bond and the first few weeks rent and made sure he had a few clothes, some bed linen, towels and toiletries. He was pathetically grateful for even these small things and he had seen how affected Lestrade had been by it.

Finally, Greg had loaned him a laptop so he could work from home. Being out in the world  right now was too much temptation. And with cold cases, not much legwork needed to be done. Mostly study and contemplation, and with his head now clear and focused, Sherlock was able to effectively use deductive reasoning and solve the cases.

In the first week he solved two cases and Lestrade had made dinner one night. He had patted Sherlocks hair and they had snogged deeply, but that was it.  

The next week Sherlock solved five cold cases, one ensuring that a serial rapist was caught and imprisoned. Lestrade brought him pizza and taught him how to deep throat his Sir by repressing his gag reflex.

The week after he solved eight cold cases and Lestrade took him out for lunch. It was cheerful and Sherlock had not remembered ever feeling this level of comfort. Naturally, they had time for conversation. No real repression could take place in such a public arena.

Lestrade started in on the hard questions though.

"What lead you to the streets Sherlock, brilliant man like you?" he said, between bites of his Caesar salad. Sherlocks fork paused in his Alfredo. 

"Sir...?" he asked, confused.

"Your drugs history Sherlock. I am asking for it."

"Sir....why?" Sherlock looked uncomfortable.

"Because I want to get to know all of you Sherlock." 

"Sir...what we have is nice. Why...spoil it?"

"It's not a game Sherlock. It's a lifestyle. This. Between us." Lestrade motioned his fork back between them. "You are more to me than a bit on the side. I consider you a partner. A boyfriend even. My sub. My property. And as such I am interested on you. I also expect honesty and you to answer any questions I have. Do you understand?" Lestrade leaned forward and put his hand on Sherlocks thigh, under the table. His fingers tightened and Sherlock shivered.

"I'm...Your boyfriend?" he whispered.

"Yes."

"Your wife...?"

"We have an agreement." Lestrade said gruffly.

Sherlock looked down at his food. He shovelled in a mouthful and chewed. Swallowed. Took a sip of water.

"My parents were distant, my older brother is emotionless and we are from old, boring money." he began. "I was diagnosed as a genius at three but even my fantastic Intelligence Quota pales behind Mycrofts.  My brother." Sherlock explained.

Lestrade nodded encouragingly. Sherlock continued.

"Where Mycroft had direction, aims, a set of codes to work with, I had...nothing. I experimented and read. Then..." Sherlock paused. He sipped his water again and Lestrade stoked his thigh gently.

"Mycroft came out as gay." Sherlock said, eyes darkening in anger. "Father went crazy. Attacked Mycroft. Physically. Put his hands..." Sherlock paused to swallow. 

"He choked my brother. Mycroft passed out, I saw his eyes shut down and he fell. I was sure he was dead and...I....stepped in and Father punched me in the face. Mummy intervened and Father struck her. She fell on the kitchen table, hit her head and...she died. I held her as she breathed her last. And Father....kept kicking Mycrofts body. He hadn't even realised he had killed Mummy. He was too busy kicking the body of his oldest son..."

Lestrade was speechless. He had heard some crap stories before but this was just simply awful. 

"Christ.... Sherlock, I am so sorry..."

"Father was arrested, Mycroft was hospitalised and I ran away to London." Sherlock said.

"How long ago?" 

"Two years."

"And do you see Mycroft?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Rarely. He is....busy."

"And your father now?"

"Strangeways."

Lestrade nodded. "Good."

They returned to their lunch, and Lestrade did not remove his hand from Sherlocks thigh.

That night Lestrade cuffed Sherlock to his own bed and used a crop to make lovely lines down his thighs. Sherlock squirmed under the heavy hand of his Dom, crying out in pain and bliss. 

And when Lestrade pinched his nipples and bit his neck, and rubbed his big cock on Sherlocks leg, Sherlock groaned and begged for more.

And when Lestrade pushed his fingers inside his arse and stroked his prostate he shivered and pushed back. 

And when Lestrade slapped his face and demanded he come, he did so, crying out his Dominants name and sobbing in clean,white, pure pleasure.

#


	9. MURDER AND PUNISHMENT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade tries to keep his two lives separate but Sherlock gets bored. Just as well Lestrade has a blindfold, some cuffs, and his old leather belt...

NINE

MURDER AND PUNISHMENT

The next week saw Sherlock grow bored with solving cold cases. His body itched to get out and sniff the scene of new crimes, but Sir had not said he was not ready. But he felt ready. He felt fit. He felt AMAZING!

He began to get that grey swell in his head. That dead buzz that meant it was being underused. He was...bored. And a bored Sherlock was a dangerous Sherlock. Drugs? Yes maybe. He had also been known to perch on high buildings like Ezio from Assassins Creed, jump trains like Bond or play poker with lesser members of the Mob. And win. 

He fluffed his hair manically and growled in frustration. Telly was boring, the Internet was boring, cold cases were boring!

Oh dear, what was that on the secret police scanner...the one Lestrade had no idea he owned, the one he bought from a second hand dealer and fixed himself....

Murder. In an abandoned house. A certain Greg Lestrade called it in, IC1 male seen running from the scene, second IC1 male dead on site. Red dust on and around the body...

Sherlock grabbed his coat...

#

"Sherlock, what in the fucking fuck are you doing here?" Lestrade strode to the thin man in the long coat, ready to shake him.

"The body, Lestrade, I must see it."

"Go home Sherlock." Lestrade sighed, spinning the boy around by the shoulder. Sherlock ripped his arm free and turned back.

"No, let me see it. Theres something-" Sherlock paused. "The dust. The red dust..."

"How do you know about that?" Lestrade suddenly hissed, his eyes flinty. He was a copper. He was suspicious. Of his own boy!

"Police scanner." Sherlock said, waving it off as of it were unimportant. "His ID, did it say he was from Cornwall?"

"Sherlock, are you high?" Lestrade growled, noting the manic state of both Sherlocks manner and his eyes. They darted. Darting was never good. Sherlock turned himself to his Sir. He made an effort to calm himself, suddenly aware of how he must look, appearing like magic at a crime scene and demanding to see a dead body.

"Sir..." he purred, hooding his eyes and licking lightly at his lips, with just the pink tip. He noticed Lestrades subtle shift in presence, standing taller, slitting his own eyes, gripping Sherlocks bicep. "...please..."

"So help me Sherlock....five minutes. That's all." Lestrade pushed Sherlock in front of him, past curious coppers, under the tape and I to the warehouse.

"I'll only need three." Sherlock said.

#

Watching his boy work a scene was fascinating and much more arousing than it should have been. Sherlock crouched, and danced and sniffed. He picked up the bodies hand, checked behind its ear, and unrolled his jeans cuffs. 

The bright and intense look on that pale face, the glossy curls flipping and those long beautiful hands moving like butterflies on a violin, made Lestrade finally realise that this boy was truely a genius. A street rat coming off cocaine and street living yes, but not to be underestimated in the smarts department. And it seemed he really had a knack for seeing the at-face-value unseeable.

The information he rattled off to Lestrade was then forwarded to those who needed to know and some of it checked out straight away. Yes, he had been from Cornwall, the red dust was from a quarry, and he had been killed with an ice pick to the top of his spine. The man running away had nothing to do with the murder and, in fact, was most likely a fellow street rat called Wiggins who had been known to sleep here and was mildly brain damaged.

When all that Sherlock could do at the scene was done, Lestrade took him aside, and gripped the back of his neck under his pretty warm hair.

"You disobeyed me Sherlock." he said.

"Sir, you didn't tell me not to come-"

Lestrade shook him like a kitten.

"Do NOT come to my crime scenes boy. Ever. Now get home, strip, put on the big cuffs and wait. Do NOT disobey me in this as well Sherlock."

Sherlock trembled.

"No Sir." he said in a whisper. Lestrade pushed him and he walked away, coat flying behind him.

"Jesus, who WAS that freak?" WPC Sally Donovan asked. Lestrade turned his steady brown eyes on her.

"That, my dear, was the cleverest person you will ever meet in your lifetime." he said, and could not hide the note of pride that accompanied that statement.

#

When Lestrade finally came over to Sherlocks it was three hours later. To his utter amazement Sherlock was as naked as he had asked, with the big leather cuffs buckled to his wrists. Then, to sweeten the deal, he was on his knees, facing the door. How long had he been there?

"Two hours and thirteen minutes." Sherlock said, voice raspy, reading Lestrades thoughts. "It was no hardship Sir, because I was waiting for you."

Lestrade closed the door, then locked it. Sherlock shivered. Lestrade slowly removed his police issue puffy jacket and then his hat. He placed both on Sherlocks desk. Then he slid out his night stick and crossed the room in three big strides, his coppers boots clomping loudly.

He put the rounded end of the stick under Sherlocks chin and lifted his boys head to face him. Sherlock looked frightened but determined.

"The scanner, Sherlock?"

"On my desk." Sherlock whispered. Lestrade turned, located the scanner and proceeded to smash it to oblivion. Sherlock cried out but made no move to stop his Sir. Lestrade then whirled and crossed back to Sherlock, wrenching the boys head back by those "grip me" curls at the back of his head.

"You EVER burst onto a crime scene like that Sherlock and we are through, do you understand?"

Sherlock gasped and whimpered out a heart wrenching sob.

"No Sir, please!" he begged.

"I could have lost my job Sherlock. My job is my calling. Without it I am nothing. Not even YOU could fill that hole! I am about to make Inspector, and you waltzed in and nearly stopped that from happening, all because...You. Were. BORED!" Lestrades fist tensed around the handle of his night stick and Sherlock braced himself. When Greg saw the boy prepare for a beating which he assumed would be from a stick designed to knock people out he stepped back. 

Sure...He was angry. Disappointed. But he would not hurt Sherlock just to hurt him. No, this had to be done right.

When Sherlock had first moved in Greg had taken the time to drill in some heavy duty eye hooks in the brick wall. This was to ensure he had somewhere to tie Sherlock that was more subtle than a St Andrews cross. Tonight, this set up was to be used.

"Get up." Lestrade ordered. 

Sherlock stood slowly, blood rushing to places it had been denied while he was waiting for Lestrade. Greg once again grabbed the boys hair and drove him towards the wall. He pressed him there, nose to the cold bricks.

"Face the wall. Don't move."

"Yes Sir."

Lestrade divested himself of his checked police tie and white shirt, took off his police utility belt and removed his boots and socks. He gripped the carpet with his toes to steady himself, looking at the lean lines of Sherlocks slightly trembling lanky body as it waited.

Lestrade opened the top draw of the desk and removed two short lengths of chain, a blindfold, and his old belt. He came up behind Sherlock, pressing his chest into the boys back. It was still lightly marked from the previous cropping and would not hurt, but Sherlock still hissed in a breath.

"Be still." Lestrade ordered and Sherlock nodded, whispering "Yes Sir."

Greg slid the blindfold over Sherlocks eyes and buckled it tight behind his head. Sherlock stiffened and his lips parted. He looked so fucking beautiful like this....

The Greg clipped one length of chain the the D ring on his cuff, pulled the wrist up and clipped the other end to the eyehook in the wall, then did the same to the other wrist. 

Sherlock was naked and restrained, and blindfolded. He looked perfect. Just perfect.

"Work and you, boy, do NOT mix." Lestrade growled.

"No Sir, I am so sorry Sir." Sherlock said in a low voice. 

"Be quiet." Lestrade bit, winding the buckle end of his belt around his fist. "Be quiet Sherlock."

Sherlock closed his mouth but then opened it again to let out a shout because Lestrade had laid a stripe across his shoulders with his belt. It was an old belt, bendy, but leather, and it hurt. A lot. Sherlock danced a bit but hardly had time to recover before Lestrade whipped him again.

Sherlock was overwhelmed at being hit with Lestrades belt. His BELT! He moaned and danced and begged for more. He could picture the sweat on Lestrades upper body, the and rippling, and that horny look of concentration in his eyes. And of course there was the gorgeous sense of pain that came with each strike. 

But for Lestrade to use something as intimate and corporal as his belt....it screamed of proper punishment but in such a loving and caring way that Sherlocks feelings became mixed up and strange. There was something in his chest, unfurling like a flag. Lestrade cared for him. Cared enough to punish him with his own belt. Oh...oh, was this...feeling....was it love?

His cock thickened with interest and his arms trembled. Each stripe made him moan deeper until he was too hoarse to do anything but whimper. His legs finally gave out and he fell, hanging by his wrists.

Lestrade stood back, panting. He watched his boy, all striped and sweaty, hanging trembling from the hooks. He wiped his brow, dropped the belt and unhooked Sherlock.

The boy fell, shaking, into his arms.

"Good boy, good boy Sherlock."

Sherlock gripped Lestrades arms in fingers of steel, shaking as the adrenalin coursed through his system. He tucked his head into Lestrades shoulder and Greg kissed him, and stroked him, and held him tight.

Lestrade  dragged the duvet off Sherlocks bed and covered the boy to warm him up. It was only then he remembered the blindfold and was chuffed that Sherlock had not removed it himself. He slid it from the boys face and Sherlock sighed. He opened his eyes and stared deeply into Lestrades.

"I really am very sorry Sir."

"I know Sherlock, I forgive you. You did so well taking my belt like you did. So well. I am very proud of you."

"Sir....was I right?"

"Hmm?" Lestrade hummed.

"Was I right...the murder victim. From Cornwall...all the things I found..."

Lestrade chuckled and held Sherlock tight. 

"Of course you were sweetheart, of course you were...." and he kissed the perfect lips of his perfect boy.

#


	10. GOOD DOM BAD DOM

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people just don't get it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I have taken so long, been running with The Black Dog.

CHAPTER TEN

GOOD DOM BAD DOM

Six Months Later:

Sherlock looked fantastic and he knew it, in a black bespoke suit and a white shirt that was so tight the buttons could almost be heard straining. He smiled around happily at the crowd at the club, eyes resting on his handsome silver haired black clad Dom every now and then to get a nod of approval, a loving touch on his collared neck, or a quick kiss. This was "Rope", a hard core club, and Sherlock was expected to be beside Greg all night. Not a hardship for Sherlock at all.

In the last six months the man had grown out of the gangling hunched stance he had affected on the streets to be less noticed, and learned to stand tall. Nobody was going to hurt him now he had a good job, a purpose and an excellent commanding boyfriend, whom he had moved in with two months ago. He had also had a birthday, and was now a stunning man of twenty.

Sherlocks' older brother Mycroft had also drifted back into their lives. 

It had started with one dinner and became something more. Mycroft WAS the British Government, Lestrade learned, and one of the first things the auburn haired man had done (once he had discovered the true nature of his Brothers relationship with Greg), had been to get them a place to live. So now they had a lovely flat along Baker Street with a nice landlady downstairs and it was but a cab ride to New Scotland Yard, where Lestrade had been promoted to Detective Inspector, and Sherlock had been given the job of Consulting Detective. He was now out of cold cases and into the more confusing cases the Yard had difficulty solving.

Mycroft, it transpired, was also in The Lifestyle, but had identified as Dominant. Sherlock was chuffed to learn this, because he knew how much pleasure Greg got from his role, and wished only the best for Mycroft. They frequented totally different clubs. Mycroft would never be seen in Rope, it was, as he said "A bit of a giveaway." He had to be discreet, which is why he used the Diogenes Clubs' more secret rooms for his dalliances. Nothing permanent, but he had fun anyway.

Tonight, Sherlocks hair shone to match his eyes. He had gotten quite used to public scenes now, and enjoyed showing off. Greg had laid out his suit and shirt and said "I have something very sexy planned tonight. Be good Sherlock, don't let me down." Sherlock, naked and on his knees at Gregs feet, snorted. 

"As if I could ever disobey you Sir."

Greg had run his hand through those perfect locks, and buckled his collar to that long white throat.

"No, I think you could." Lestrade had smiled. "But you don't. Good boy." 

And he kissed Sherlock soundly before bidding the boy get dressed.

"Your boy is looking remarkable tonight!" Lestrades good Dom friend Mistress Q said to Greg, who swallowed down a sip of water and smiled.

"He is, isn't he?" Greg stroked the back of Sherlocks head and Sherlock nuzzled into it, eyes half closed, water held loosely in his hands.

"You and Sherlock doing anything tonight?" Miss Q went on, thanking her seven foot tall cross dressing redheaded slut Sophi for the water she placed in her mistress' hand. There were alcoholic drinks available but only idiots played under the influence.

"Got something special planned." Greg winked and Sherlock shivered. He loved being on display, showing the room what a good boy he was, what a sexy slut for Greg he was, what a perfect little masso. The pair had quite a reputation now, but it was still better in private.

Sophi turned to her corset-clad Mistress and bent down.

"Ma'am, she's here tonight. Please....don't start anything, I cannot run in these heels."

Miss Q growled. "I will ignore her. You do so too Sophi."

"Yes Ma'am."

"Sorry, who?" Greg asked.

"Miss Clitemnestra" Miss Q said, nodding over to a purple latex cat suited blonde. "She lets us all down, fuck knows what John sees in her, but he must love humiliation, because she is awful. Just awful."

A compact blonde man in a tight khaki latex costume uniform and big combat boots was trailing behind the tall mistress. His hands were handcuffed behind him and he was being tugged forcefully by a collar and lead. He had a poker face but seemed quite happy to be dragged across the room.

Clitemnestra stopped to chat to several black clad Doms and her subbie stood in Military stance, chest and head high but not making eye contact with anyone. Sherlock noticed that his Mistress did not introduce him, nor did anyone introduce themselves to him. Not friendly. Not friendly at all.

With a jerk on his lead, Miss Clitemnestra urged her boy to follow her to the bar where she ordered herself a white wine, but nothing for him. As she sipped she crossed to Greg, MissQ, Sherlock and Sophi, her handsome subbie dutifully following.

"Miss Q! So good to see you!" Miss Clitemnestra cried effusively.

"Miss Clitemnestra." MissQ said. Sherlock noticed very quickly that things were not right. John was pale and kind of twitchy. "You remember Sophi" Miss Q went on, indicating her super tall red headed gurl. Miss Clitemnestra barely acknowledged Sophis existence and, while Miss Q fumed and covered it with a delicate sip of her water, Miss Clitemnestra turned to Greg and put out her hand.

"Miss Clitemnestra. Pleased to meet you." She said. She was very pretty up close, beautiful skin and lovely blue eyes. She smelled beautiful and her breasts tumbled out of her tight purple latex catsuit quite invitingly.

"Greg. This is Sherlock." Lestrade shook the hand proffered him and used his other to indicate his subbie. Sherlock nodded but she was not looking anyway. And, as it happened, the tall black haired man only had eyes for John.

"Would your John like a drink?" Miss Q asked Miss Clitemnestra, but before the busty blonde could reply, Miss Q had her water held to Johns mouth. He gratefully gulped a few mouthfuls down before his eyes darted to his Mistress. Her eyes were slitted and John choked.

"Sorry Mistress" he whispered wetly, and was dragged away by the furious Miss Clitemnestra.

"Damn...." Miss Q swore, and Sophi put her arm around her ma'am. Miss Clitemnestra looked back at Miss Q with flaming eyes, then flicked her face away again, jerking so hard on Johns lead that he stumbled.

"He would not stay if he did not like it." Sophi said to her ma'am in her gruff male voice. Miss Q nodded, but she was not sure.

"Sherlock?" Greg noticed his tall boyfriend had not taken his eyes off John. It was not the mans arse in tight latex that held his attention either, though that was beautiful, it was the whole man.

"He's..." Sherlock had his deduction face on, and suddenly remembered where he was. "Sir, I'm sorry!" He said, leaning into Gregs side and dropping his eyes. "Sir...please, I'm sorry...."

"Is he okay?" Greg murmured, lips on Sherlocks hair.

"Yes Sir, for now."

"Then let it go sweetheart." He added. "Some people like that sort of treatment. We cannot judge."

Sherlock kept his opinion to himself out of respect for his Dom, but he planned on getting John by himself and questioning him quite thoroughly later. He could not vouch for Miss Q and her gurl.

Greg and Sherlock mingled happily for the next hour, meeting and greeting, watching some scenes and chatting with friends new and old. Sherlock preened under Greg's attention, and the flirty words of the men and women around them. He was, he decided, a very happy man indeed.

So when Greg told him to come to the corner he did so gladly. He was glader still to see Greg's toy bag bag placed next to a sturdy wooden T-shaped cross. 

"Ready to play?" Greg winked.

"Ready Sir." Sherlock nodded, flexed his shoulders, and shivered as Greg dipped into the bag and brought out the heavy duty cuffs and tough, rubber covered bit gag. Sherlocks eyes glittered.

So it was going to be a scene that may force Sherlock to scream? Sherlock grinned and held out his wrists to his Dom.

Bring it on.

#


	11. THAT'S NOT VERY KNIFE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg has a shiny knife, and Sherlock has a very pretty suit on...but oh dear, he seems to be bound quite nicely. How is Greg going to make his boy naked.....?

TO MAKE A DEAL

CHAPTER ELEVEN

THAT'S NOT VERY KNIFE

Sherlock looked spectacular cuffed as he was, tightly cruciform with a rubber bit clamped in his teeth, adding a stretched and sexy look to his perfect lips. The shiny metal of the bridle felt fantastic against his head, and the cuffs were wide and warm, but made sure his wrists were strapped hard to the cross bar. 

He felt safe. 

He felt steady.

A crowd gathered to watch. Not only did they cluster because Sherlock was so damned gorgeous, especially bound like this, but also because as a pair, these two always put on a fantastic show.

"Look at my brazen slut." Greg started off with, addressing the group, but looking at Sherlock. The Dom busied himself uncuffing his black shirtsleeves and rolling them up. Sherlocks eyes fluttered just a little. There was nothing more exciting than Greg in Dom mode, even doing something as simple as rolling up his shirt sleeves. It made his chest seem bigger and his whole maleness very present.

"Could he have got that shirt tighter?" Someone called from the crowd, and a few people laughed in appreciation. Sherlock wiggled a little and made his eyes smile. Everyone here knew he was loving being on display and the feeling of camaraderie only egged him on.

Greg put one of his broad warm hands to the silver side of the bit gag and Sherlock leaned into it, rubbing.

"Well, he has entirely too many clothes on."

Cat calls and whistles of agreement came after that statement and Sherlock stretched a smile around his bit, and nodded in agreement.

Greg went back to the toy bag and pulled out a small red rubber ball which he placed into one of Sherlocks hands. Sherlock already knew that, in the absence of his voice, dropping the ball meant "Stop". 

Greg kissed Sherlocks cheek, then went back to his bag.

Sherlock noticed then that Miss Clitemnestra and John had arrived. The purple clad Mistress sat on a chair and John, still cuffed and collared, fell to his knees beside her. His head was bowed until she looked away, accepting a red wine from another Dom. John took the opportunity then to look up. He caught Sherlocks eyes and Sherlock winked. A blush tinged the mans cheeks and he looked back down.

"If you are done flirting, Sherlock." Greg whispered in Sherlocks ear and Sherlock turned his attention to his Dom. "Surprise!" Greg smiled, and showed Sherlock the lovely  
little sharp knife he had fished from the toy bag, rotating it to glint on the lights.

Sherlocks eyes widened. Oh goodie, knife play! Wait, Greg was going behind him and....oh no, his shirt!

Gregs deft fingers used the knife to flick one button off. The shirt parted and the crowd oohed. The knife slid down to the next button, cut it away and more skin was revealed. Sherlocks eyes closed as Greg trailed the knife down his flesh now, to the next button. Flick, and it was gone....then flick, all buttons were cut off. Greg pulled the rest of the shirt from Sherlocks trousers and slid a quick feel of Sherlocks warm stomach. Sherlock moaned.

Still behind Sherlock, Greg then used the point of the knife to trace a teasing line down Sherlocks exposed stomach, across the button of his trousers and then down the long line of Sherlocks suddenly interested cock. 

Greg then traced the knife back up until it reached his sluts long collared neck. Sherlock tipped his head back and allowed Greg further access to his throat. The knife spent some time making light patterns over the most sensitive parts of Sherlocks throat, jugular, Adam's apple, tender bit under the jaw.

Greg then came out from behind Sherlock, took the sleeve of the beautiful bespoke jacket near the wrist and laid the knife on the seam. 

Sherlocks eyes opened in horror. Greg grinned and used the knife to rip at the seam. Sherlock shook his head so hard his curls bounced and his eyes got impossibly wider.

"Do it!" Someone called.

"But it's bespoke!" Someone else cried in mock horror, and Sherlock nodded his head in agreement to that comment. 

Greg heeded none of them. He just roughly tore the seam of the jacket until it fell free, flapping in two parts at Sherlocks side. Sherlock moaned in horror, but Greg heartlessly ripped the other sleeve too. Then he went behind Sherlock again, there was a very loud ripping sound, Sherlocks body jerked, and the two halves of the jacket fell with a pathetic floomp to the floor. Sherlock shook his head sadly but the room cheered happily.

Then Greg crouched by Sherlocks feet. He bid the boy step out of his shoes, then rolled his socks down and off, leaving his long feet bare and somewhat vulnerable. Greg tossed the footwear towards the bag, and then cut a knick to the seam to Sherlocks beautiful tight tailored bespoke trousers. Sherlock looked down, shaking his head again in mock horror, enjoying the sensation of helplessness as his clothes were cut from him.

Greg grinned and then skilfully ripped the inseam of the trousers up. The knife caught a few times as the material bunched but nevertheless, the inside seam of those trousers parted right to Sherlocks hardening crotch. Greg then spent some time cutting away the leg of the trousers around Sherlocks upper thigh until the expensive material dropped forlornly to the floor.

He then did the same to the other trouser leg. Sherlock was left with a cut open shirt and trousers that now more resembled designer bespoke shorts with a jagged and torn hem.

Then Greg gleefully cut the button of the trousers. It pinged to the ground to join the other scattered remains of Sherlocks outfit.

Sherlock moaned and thrust his hips out. His hard cock delighted in his body being slowly revealed like this, bit by bit, and the danger of the knife so near his perfect skin thrilled him. 

Greg unzipped the ragged shorts slowly and Sherlock shivered. The material stayed stubbornly up but the top of his pretty black boyleg panties were revealed. Miss Q wolf whistled in delight and Sherlock flushed pink.

Greg then turned his attention to the fine material of Sherlocks crisp white shirt. He took his time cutting away the collar, which he threw over his shoulder with a grin. He then did the same with one stiff starched shirt cuff, and then the other. Sherlock loved the coolness of the knife near his restraints, and the skin there almost goose bumped in anticipation of the slick sharp pain. 

The sting never came.

Greg nicked the shirt sleeve and then tore a long rip up the arm of the shirt, causing Sherlock to moan. That was a nasty, sexy sound and he adored it. His beautiful shirt was in tatters and his breathing became just as ragged. The other sleeve was treated to the same rough tear and now Sherlock looked thoroughly debauched. His breathing increased, his cock filled and his heart began to pound. Helpless, so helpless, and Greg had a knife!

Then Greg used the knife perilously close to Sherlocks balls, tore the seam on the trousers and finally, the remnants of a spectacular pair of trousers fell to the floor. Sherlock stepped out of them and hung his head, trying to calm his now ragged breathing.

The crowd was now whispering in appreciation. Nothing overly sexual had happened and yet the air was electric. It was as if they were watching a strip tease but with that extra edge of danger and Sherlocks helpless despair added to the whole ambiance. 

Greg ripped one of the seams at the side of the shirt with his knife and then tore the final seam at the other side with his teeth, growling as he did so. Sherlock squeaked at the animalistic sound and Greg chuckled darkly.

He dragged the tatters off and now Sherlock stood, cuffed, head bowed, panting and pale on the podium, pile of rags at his feet and cock hard in his pants, the only piece of material left to cover his modesty.

Greg grinned and traced the knife down Sherlocks heaving abdomen, leaving slight traces of blood as he did so. Sherlock moaned at the sting, and wriggled slightly, and threw his head back, silently granting Greg more access to his wide open and bound body. The trust was wonderful. 

Greg traced over the previous trail, and brighter blood formed. Somewhere someone sobbed. Sherlock thought at first it was himself, but soon realised it wasn't when he moaned again. Greg was circling his nipple, not drawing blood, but oh to have that shiny point sooooooo near that delicate flesh thrilled Sherlock to his very marrow.

The sobbing grew and someone hissed angrily. Sherlock was a tiny bit distracted and got cross. This was bad form during a scene.

Then Greg placed the point of the knife up against Sherlocks heavy balls, bouncing them on the flat of the blade.

"Stop, please, God, stop this!!!" a broken voice sobbed from the audience. Sherlock lifted his head and Greg turned to the crowd at the same time.

John was sobbing into his chest, his whole body wracked with emotion, and Miss Clitemnestra was yanking on the lead, causing the most pathetic choking sounds to come from the submissive as he sobbed.

"Shut up John, control yourself, you are making me look bad!" Miss Clitemnestra hissed.

The shocked silence that followed was only broken by the sound of a small red rubber ball bouncing off the floor and rolling into the corner.

#


	12. SHE LOVES ME

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is looked after

TO MAKE A DEAL

CHAPTER TWELVE

SHE LOVES ME

 

 

 

 

 

As a Dom, Greg's first duty was to Sherlock, although his job as Detective Inspector Lestrade of New Scotland Yard bubbled up at the obvious distress of the submissive John. 

Naturally, however, he uncuffed Sherlock and removed the gag bit the instant that rubber ball dropped. Sherlock was on his knees in front of John in two great leaps, already loosening the mans collar, a great breach of protocol that sent Miss Clitemnestra into a fury,

"Can't you control this bitch?" She roared at Greg, who had brought a warm bathrobe over to Sherlock. Greg turned an interesting shade of fury as he wrapped the robe over Sherlocks shoulders.

"Is he okay Sherlock? Does he need an ambulance?"

Sherlock shook his head quickly, his eyes only on John. He cupped the mans face.

"John, you are okay, you are in London." Sherlock told the distraught John, who was gasping for breath, a grey sheen of sweat over his slack mouthed face, eyes screwed shut, well and truly stuck in a panic attack.

Greg nudged Sherlock and made him slip his arms into the robe, which he did, distractedly, eyes still locked on John.

"Your BOY is suffering Miss Clitemnestra."Lestrade said, "I would think he was your first priority, not a piddling breach of protocol." 

Miss Clitemnestra ignored Greg and was on her feet and gesturing to the Dungeon Master. A big burly guy in black leather wandered over. He had been supervising a needle scene and, until Miss Clitemnestra beckoned him, had no idea what had been going on in the corner.

"These insufferable prats uncollared my boy!" She screeched. The DM looked surprised, and his eyebrows rose. Sure enough, the dog lead Miss Cliemnestra was holding up had Johns collar dangling from it.

"Get these cuffs off him!" Greg snapped at Miss Clitemnestra, but Sherlock had already pressed the safety release. He massaged the shaking boys red-lined wrists.

"It's okay John, you're safe..." The tall man murmured, and John fell forward into Sherlocks chest, sobbing. "How long has he had these attacks?" Sherlock looked up and asked Miss Clitemnestra. "Since he came back?"

"What are you talking about?" She snapped.

"Oh for fucks sake woman! Afghanistan or Iraq?" 

"What?!" 

"Johns wartime service, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"He was never in the war you idiot!"

"Don't call him an idiot." Greg said, his voice low. "If Sherlock says John served, then John served. The man is a deductive genius."

Sherlock patted the back of Johns hair soothingly.

"He is suffering from Post Traumatic Stress. He is flashing on something that happened then, something to do with knives. Water, please." Sherlock held out his hand.

Sophi and Miss Q had arrived not three seconds before. Sophi passed a bottle of water to Sherlock and the dark haired man lifted Johns head. He pressed the bottle to the blondes chapped and dry lips and tipped some liquid into his mouth. John gargled most of the water but swallowed some down.

"We're you going to keep him dry all night?" Miss Q asked Miss Clitemnestra then, in a horrified voice.

"If he drinks he needs to piss. I cannot let him out of my sight, not even to the bathroom."

"You...what?" The D M asked, looking askance at the purple clad woman. "It's hot as hell in here, and you deny him water?"

"Jesus..." Greg said, wishing he could bring out his badge and arrest her for Bad Dominant Form!

Sherlock, meanwhile, had wet the sleeve of his robe with some of the bottled water and was mopping at Johns face. A bit of colour had come back to the blonde man and his breathing, while still ragged, was less panicked and a bit more controlled.

"Stop touching him!" Miss Clitemnestra demanded, but Sherlock batted her hand away.

"Is there a back room we can take him? He needs to get out of this latex and into something less constricting." Sherlock asked the D M as he gently dragged a floppy John to his feet.

"I'll take him, he is MY submissive!" Miss Clitemnestra stepped forward and Greg put his arm out to stop her.

Sherlock rounded on her furiously.

"You stupid woman! The state of this man......" he choked then, swallowed. "We are not really this!" Sherlock gestured around. "We play a game, we play roles, and we enjoy it. You are bordering on abusive with him! Now, let me through!" 

The D M bade Sherlock follow and they pushed through the crowd. Greg stayed behind, still stopping the irate and red-faced Miss Clitemnestra from joining the procession.

"Your name?" He asked, turning to her. "Your REAL name."

"What is it to you?" Miss Clitemnestra snapped, eyes following John and Sherlocks progress.

Greg sighed and brought out his badge. That got her attention. He was loathe to do so but this was quite serious. 

"DI Lestrade, Scotland Yard. Answer my questions or I will just take you in for domestic abuse."

Miss Clitemnestra went compliant when the badge came out and suddenly, all the fun left the room. There was a line, and this woman had crossed it. People wandered away, finding their street clothes and winding down their scenes. 

"Wendy. Wendy Furbisher." Miss Clitemnestra said, slumping her shoulders in defeat.

#

Sherlock peeled the tight latex shirt from John and laid him on the cool sheets of the cot the D M pointed him to. Miss Q and Sophi, who had followed, got a flannel of cold water and Miss Q dabbed at Johns neck and forehead. Sophi shucked John out of his tight latex shorts. She threw a modesty towel over the subbie, because, even though everyone in the room was used to naked parts, this was a medical situation not a play situation. Then Sophi set to work on removing the heavy combat boots and socks. 

"John, are you awake?" Sherlock said quietly as the stocky blonde rolled his head a little and murmured.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine it's all....fine."

"Take it easy, you had a flashback."

"Mistress!" John suddenly cried, struggling awake and moving his arms and legs like a trapped kitten. Sherlock got hold of his bicep and helped the man to sit. "Where is she?"

"My Dom is talking to her." Sherlock said softly. Now the man was sitting he seemed calmer. Sherlock got a good look at the body under his hand. Compact, stocky, very lovely indeed. Golden, tan lines, and the prettiest blue eyes. An impressive scar crossed through his shoulder and into his pectoral. Gunshot, healed nastily, looked like he had to dig the bullet out himself, maybe that why he hated knives-

"Oh, shit...oh SHIT I'm so sorry for spoiling your scene!" John said then, looking askance from Miss Q, to Sophi, and finally Sherlock.

"No, it's okay. We were about finished anyway." Sherlock assured him.

"How long has this been going on John?" Miss Q finally butted in. "Submissive does not mean door mat! This is...she's abusing you!"

"Oh it's not like that, she loves me, she's just strict." John said, gratefully accepting more water from Sophi and skulling it down, throat working furiously.

"John, she didn't even know about your service." Sherlock said.

"I never told her." John wiped his mouth. "How....did you...?"

"I observe." Sherlock said.

"Why did you not tell your Mistress?" Sophi asked. She believed in full disclosure. Miss Q knew she had been arrested (as a he) in the late nineties for protesting nuclear warships, and Sophi knew Miss Q went doo-lally over small dogs.

"Who would take on a broken man like me?" John sighed. "I am as perfect a submissive as I can be and she...loves me."

"John...." Sherlock said. "This is simply not healthy. She needs to let you drink. You need to insist!"

"We have a contract."

"Change it."

"No, it's fine, I told you, it's all fine..."

Greg came in then with the t-shirt and track suit bottoms he had planned to allow Sherlock to come home in. 

"Here you are mate." He said. "Wendy has gone home. Would you like a lift?"

"Mistress...left me here?" John whispered.

Greg looked a bit shamefaced.

"Yes...I am sorry, I may have made her angry. In my other life I am a policeman and I got a bit...John, I have seen so much abuse. Just because this lifestyle is power play and sometimes pain, does not mean she can deny you water." Greg said as John slipped the T-shirt over his head.

"I don't think I could explain what Miss Clitemnestra and I have. It works." John said, shrugging. He stood carefully and slid the bottoms up his legs. 

"John....she needs to care more for you. The water is bad enough, but she had no idea that knife play was a hard limit for you and she just left you here with no way to get home." Miss Q said. Her voice was tight and Sophi twined her hands in her Mistresses'.

"I am cared for, she needs me." John said. His voice was small. It was as if he agreed with them, but he was not about to do anything about it. He collected up his soggy latex outfit, socks and boots. "I better catch a cab home."

"Greg, do you have a card on you?" Sherlock asked. Greg flicked through his wallet and handed a card to John.

"I am Greg, and this is Sherlock. In real life we work for Scotland Yard. If you need to talk or...just go for a beer or a coffee, one or both of us will be glad to do it."

John took the card, thanked them, and left the room to find the D M and get him to call a cab for him. 

Sherlock rubbed his hands over his face and Greg hugged him.

"You did well sweetheart. I am proud of you for stopping your scene to help John."

"Agreed." Miss Q said, and Sophi squeezed her fingers.

"I don't know Sir, he's just going to go back to her." Sherlock sighed.

"That's the cycle darling, you know it."

Sherlock nodded into Greg's chest and Greg kissed his hair. 

"Now sit up here, let me tend your scratches, and then let's call it a night."

Sherlock hopped up on the bed and Miss Q and Sophi left with a quick hug and kiss for both Sherlock and Greg.

Sherlock slid his arms around Gregs waist and held on tight. He was shaking.

"Thank you Sir, thank you..." He said.

"What for?"

"For never EVER hurting me like that...WOMAN does to John."

#


	13. ROUND AND ROUND IT GOES

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Greg have a pint at the local.

TO MAKE A DEAL

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ROUND AND ROUND IT GOES

To say Greg was surprised and a little bit pleased to get a txt from John later that week would be an understatement. 

MEET AT LOCAL? COULD DO WITH A BEER AND A CHAT. -JW

THURSDAY NIGHT?-GL

Sherlock could not make it, he was at the morgue in St Barts talking gross innards with Molly Hooper, so Thursday night found just him and John in a booth at the closest pub.

John looked tired. He had sad eyes and a scratch on his cheek that had not been there Friday night. Greg wanted to ask but he refrained. Greg was not sure what John needed, but he was pretty sure it was not the third degree. And, truth to tell, Greg was tired of the "walked into a door" stories he heard every week.

"How's Sherlock Sir?" John asked, sipping on the beer Greg had brought him.

"Oh please, John, it's Greg."

"But...you ARE a Dom, yes?"

"I am, but not YOUR Dom."

"Mistress says I have to obey protocol all the time."

"Some people like that. I don't. Please, call me Greg."

"Okay, Greg." John smiled a small smile, and his pretty eyes lit up, just for a second.

"And I'll call you John." Greg smiled back. "And to answer your question, Sherlock is fine. He's at the morgue, doing research for a case."

"You let him-" John started, then blushed. 

"Work? Of course." Greg said. "I may be the boss of him, and also...his Boss, but he is his own person. He's good at what he does, it makes him happy, and we would be stuck without him. Plus, even I could not stop that boy from doing what he wants. He needs a tight reign sometimes and I am there for him, but in the long run, he is free to do what he wants."

Johns eyes had gone wide. 

"Wow....I had to lie to Mistress to get here tonight." John said. "She does not let me out without her, thinks I will get into trouble." He shrugged. "I told her I was going over to Harry's. My sister. Mistress hates her cos she is a drinker and takes up my time every now and then. She gets jealous, sometimes ties me to the bed so I cannot go see her..."

"Oh John...." Greg sighed, shaking his head. "That's awful."

"She's my Mistress, she can do what's he likes, I signed the contract. She owns me." John said, but his eyes dropped.

"John...." Greg was lost for words. He knew some people really got into alternate lifestyles and he didn't begrudge them. Medieval re-enactors with real jousting, Star Trek weddings, people learning to write elvish, it was all fine. Fun. A good thing, if it was not hurting anyone. But Mistress Clitemnestra was using the BDSM lifestyle to abuse a sweet boy recently returned from service to his country.

"How old are you John?"

"Twenty-three." John smiled, and quirked his mouth, bracing himself.

"Oh don't worry, I am not going to tell you you are too young to know what you want or any of that guff." Greg assured him. "You fought for our country in a harsh desert war. This at least deserves my respect, and you have it." 

Greg smiled then, and John smiled too.

"But John, I believe you are naturally submissive. It's a very good thing, submission. It shows a huge amount of trust and love for those your submit to."

John frowned. He had not thought of it like that.

"Naturally submissive?" He asked. "Mistress said I am weak and need to be controlled..."

Greg slammed his beer down a little harder than he wanted to and John jumped.

"Wrong!" 

"Sorry Sir." John whispered.

"Greg!!" Lestrade insisted. "..and I'm sorry. I get so...." Greg rubbed his eyesbrows with one hand, calming himself. "God John, you are not weak, you have submissive tendencies. The difference is...a chasm! And anyone with a naturally dominant personality understands this on a..." He searched for a word "...cellular level! Your Mistress, I'm sorry sweetheart, is a bully. An abusive bully."

"But...." John dropped his eyes. "I like it. I like her telling me what to do, hurting me and....humiliating me."

"I am sure you do. Sherlock loves it too. What is her aftercare like?"

"Aftercare?"

Greg groaned.

"Tell me she looks after you, after you have done all she wants, she praises and feeds you chocolate and hugs you, maybe covers you in a duvet...."

Greg trailed off. John was looking more and more defeated. Gregs heart lurched and he put his hand to Johns face. John flinched but then pressed into the palm, starved for nice touch.

"Christ John..." Greg said, voice low and sympathetic. Johns eyes shone and he closed them, swallowing the tears and sadness into the cold lump in his stomach. 

"Don't..." He said, and slid his face from Greg's hand. Greg dropped his arm to the table and grit his teeth.

"Submissive does not mean doormat." He said, echoing Miss Q's statement from Friday night. "John, you deserve so much more."

"Don't be silly Greg, whatever Mistress gives me I am happy to have. Who else would put up with my panic attacks and scarred, ugly body?"

"God John, you cannot believe that, you are stunning-"

"Gotta go, thanks for the beer." John suddenly stood and rushed from the pub before Greg could stop him.

Greg clenched his fists and looked down at the table. He swallowed down the last of his beer and flipped out his phone.

NEED YOU- GL

#

Later that night Sherlock found himself pinned by the wrists on his back, Greg's cock sliding in and out of his tight hot hole, slowly and lovingly. Sherlock moaned low in his throat, the same throat Greg was kissing and nipping at as he undulated his hips, making his thick cock head hit Sherlocks sweet spot every damn thrust, driving Sherlock mad.

"Sir, please, take me..."

"Hush Sherlock, let me fuck you,you desperate trollop."

"Sir, Gods, harder, please! Fuck me, don't just-" Sherlock tried to arch up but Greg bit his throat hard and made him lose his concentration. 

Greg kept the same slow, long, gentle pace, cock filling his boy with delicious slow friction. Poor Sherlock actually whimpered and arched but, pinned under Greg as he was, he could do nothing but accept the pace his Sir set. 

He managed to capture Greg's lush mouth with his perfect lips and kiss him deeply, lasciviously using his clever tongue to dance and play with his Sirs, causing a moan to rise up in Greg's throat. But increase his pace? Greg did not.

"Please...." Sherlock whispered, his aquamarine eyes shining into Greg's and Greg smiled.

"Hush sweetheart." He whispered, rolling his hips into Sherlock, filling him beautifully. Sherlocks eyes went deeper green when he realised, finally, what his Sir was doing.

"Sir...I love you too." He whispered urgently and Greg whimpered and spasmed and spilled himself in Sherlocks hot wet hole, his body shaking and jerking with the suddenness of the exquisite orgasm that hit him, like a pale skinned, curly haired Mack truck.

"Sherlock, Sherlock...." He kept whispering and kissing his boy until Sherlock, too, came in not spurts between them, slicking over their bellies and cementing them together.

#


	14. NO WAY OUT UNLESS...HELLO!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is attacked

TO MAKE A DEAL

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

NO WAY OUT UNLESS....HELLO!

John held one trembling hand to his cut lip, the other cupping his ferociously bleeding nose. He tried to keep himself quiet but the shock was too much and a sound escaped him. It was a thick wet sob, choked as it was with blood running down the back of his throat. 

The front door to Miss Clitemnestras house was deadlocked and John did not have the key. He had never got one. The back door was locked too, he knew, and right now he didn't want to be seen by Mistress so he could not risk going for a window. 

She was really angry. 

He could hear her crashing about upstairs in what she called "his room", but was more a store room as he had very little to call his own since coming back from deployment. 

He was trapped and badly frightened.

He crouched like Harry Potter in the dark cupboard under the stairs. He had slipped in there once he had scrambled away from Mistresses' fists. He tried to burrow down like a hedgehog behind brooms and a Hoover and some suitcases. He was pretty sure that, if Miss Clitemnestra looked inside, she would not see him straight away and he could stay there at least till she calmed down and the bleeding stopped.

The blood was really flowing now. He grabbed a furniture polish rag and held to to his nose. It smelled of Mr Sheen and nearly made him sneeze. It was only pure mind over matter that stopped the sneeze from expelling blood all over the room and giving away his position to Miss Clitemnestra. A sneeze would also have jarred his damaged ribs and his vision was already blurring due to the cutting pain in his side.

The shaking was getting worse. The adrenalin coursing through his system made him feel nauseous and knocked his bones against the wall. He shifted so the knocking would stop but the sobbing was harder to disguise. And the blood just would not stop!

She was screaming his name now....

He whimpered. 

Why had he said no? Why hadn't he just let her do whatever she wanted to him? 

He had been scared, thats why. He had not wanted to be tied so tight he could not move and have her use a knife on him to 'cure his knife stupidity'. He told her he thought it wouldn't work, and when she insisted, pulled out the rope, slid out a hunting knife, he flat out refused.

It was a blur of fists and anger and teeth and screaming after that. She was very strong, and when furious, she fought dirty. He staggered out of his room after her attack, when she was distracted by smashing and throwing stuff around.

"JOHN! JOHN GET HERE!" Miss Cliemnestra called as she came to the landing above him. "THERES NO WAY OUT!"

Johns tears joined the flowing blood.

The door to his hiding place was torn open and the suitcases kicked aside.

"You pathetic snivelling prick!" Miss Clitemnestra spat and reached for him.

He cowered back, but he knew he was stuck.

There really WAS no way out....

#

There was a light tapping on his door, and Greg looked up from his desk to see an eager desk Sergeant pop his head in.

"Sorry Sir, we've had a call from Saint Barts hospital. Someone was dumped outside the hospital last night and admitted,badly beaten. Your card was in his hand. They want you to come and talk to him. He refuses to speak to anyone else."

"My card?" Greg asked.

"Your business card Sir, clutched in his fist."

Lestrade did not make Detective for no reason.

"John!" He gasped, and leaped to his feet. He grabbed his coat and his phone and was out the door. 

By the time he got to his car he was running.

#

The man on the hospital bed bore little resemblance to the sturdy blonde Greg had had a beer with the week before. 

Disregarding the IV and nasal oxygen tubes, Johns face was swollen and bruised. His lip was cut, his nose a swirl of red and purple. His eyes were shut as if sleeping and one was black. The cheekbone on the same side as the black eye was an angry red and twice the size of the other one. 

And this was just the damage Lestrade could see. Oxygen tubes suggested more injuries under the hospital blanket and an IV was not a good sign either. Blood loss at the very least....

Greg ran his hand through his peppered hair, shocked. He knew with certainty that Wendy had done this to John. He could not assume John was ready to leave her though. He may have panicked in the moment and called for Greg but that had happened before to Greg, more times than he could ever count, and nearly every time they backed down, went back to the devil they knew.

Greg sat in one of the plastic hospital chairs on the side with less tubes, dragged it closer, leaned his chest against the bed and took hold of Johns hand gently.

"John. John mate..." He whispered, brushing away Johns fringe with the fingers of his other hand. Johns eyes snapped open and he whimpered. His frightened gaze darted until it came to rest on Greg's smiling face. "Hi John."

"Greg...." John said, voice soft and husky. "You came."

"You asked for me. Of course I came."

"Sherlock?" He croaked.

"On his way. I text him as I left the yard." Greg said, and gave the man a small smile. "You don't mind?"

John shook his head very slightly and Greg was shocked to see tears begin to form.

"I need all the friends I can get." John whimpered and began to cry in earnest. 

"What happened?" Greg asked softly, rubbing his thumb over Johns knuckles.

"It was Miss Clitemnestra, she wanted to cure my knife play hard limit." John said, closing his eyes. More tears fell.

"Uh huh." Greg nodded. He had no thrill in being right but he knew it had been her. Knew it.

"She thought saturation therapy would work..." John admitted then.

"Jesus mate, I am so sorry."

"She was going to bind me and run this huge knife....all over me...and I was so frightened I refused...and she..." John indicated his face and hissed because any movement jarred his ribs.

"Do you want to press charges John?" Greg asked then, bracing himself. Loyalty to ones abuser was prevalent in victims but John was obviously made of sterner stuff.

"Yes, Greg. Yes please. I do. She...she's..." John searched for a word but ended up just whimpering again. 

Greg squeezed his hand gently.

"We'll done mate. Well done."

There came the sound of footfalls pounding down the corridor towards them followed by a squeaking slide. A long dark-coated form wizzed past the doorway only to be stopped by a long-fingered hand as it caught the frame. 

Sherlock Holmes then vaulted into the room. 

"John oh my fucking...I'll kill her!" He roared, leaping to Johns side. He placed his cool hand very VERY gently against Johns less swollen cheek. "Look what she DID to you...." He whispered.

"John has decided to press charges Sherlock so calm down please." Greg said. Sherlock nodded and said "Yes Sir" but did not take his eyes from John. Greg could not help a small smile. Sherlock did not take to people. That he took to John said more about John than Sherlock but still spoke volumes.

"Sherlock, thanks for coming." John croaked. 

"What happened?" 

John repeated his story and Sherlock went from red with fury to white with fear.

"Get the doctor in here!" Sherlock snapped to Greg. John gasped. He knew what happened when you talked like that to your Dom. To his surprise Greg merely lifted the buzzer and used his thumb to press the red button. 

A nurse arrived within three minutes.

"We need to see the doctor." Sherlock said, and the nurse dimpled. 

"She's just behind me, aren't you lucky?" She said, brown eyes flashing in amusement.

"Go easy on her Sherlock." Greg warned, and he sure as hell did not mean the nurse who checked the IV and bustled about doing Johns vitals. She was used to people puffing up like angry cats at her. All fluff and no spit.

The doctor arrived. Mid thirties, bright red hair, lovely bright smile.

"Hi, I'm Doctor Hand. How are you doing Mister Watson?" She asked, sliding a pen back into her lab coat pocket and picking up Johns chart.

"I'm okay-"

"Your name is Watson?" Sherlock asked in surprise.

"Sherlock stop." Greg said, and stood to shake the doctors hand. "Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, Scotland Yard." He introduced himself, and then waved his hand in Sherlocks direction "Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective. Can you tell us the nature of Johns injuries?"

"Mister Watson has suffered a number of bruised ribs, a bruised lung, facial contusions with no broken bones, split lip, concussion and blood loss." Dr Hand said, smiling at John as she talked. "You were very lucky your nose wasn't broken and, if she had hit your chest harder, she would have snapped some ribs. As it is, the blood loss is what is concerning me most. You also have a full upper and lower jaw bite to your right shoulder and are borderline anaemic. We have run some pints through to replace the blood you lost and now you are on saline and pain killers."

"Fuck!" Sherlock swore and the nurse looked daggers at him. He did not apologise but he did look contrite. He stood and shoved his hands in his coat pockets.

"Recovery time?" Greg asked then.

"Bed rest for at least a week with those ribs, at least three weeks light duties after that. He will also need pain killers and antibiotics-"

"He will need to move in with us." Sherlock said then. Greg and John both looked at him. "He will need round the clock care and somewhere safe if she...decides to try and persuade him to drop the charges or come back to her."

"Fat chance." John spat.

"You're right Sherlock." Greg nodded. He had seen time and again the persuasive power abusers had over their victims. With Sherlock and Greg by Johns side it was way less likely to happen.

"John....?"

John sighed in a broken breath and let it out again.

"Yes...please...I would like to feel safe."

"Good. That's settled. Now, I need to...need to..." Sherlock was very rarely lost for words. Greg could see he was suffering.

"Get John and I some tea sweetheart, there's a good boy." He said, and fished out some money for the tea machine.

"Yes Sir." Sherlock took the money and wizzed out of the door.

John visibly relaxed. That was more like it, Sherlock running to do Sirs business.

Greg clasped Johns non bitten shoulder as the nurse conferred his vitals with Dr Hand.

"You will be okay John."

"Thank you Sir." John whispered and, just this once, Greg let it go. John need guidance and parameters and if that was all Greg could do right that very second then that's what he would do.

But once he was back in his official capacity, Wendy was going to suffer for her crimes against John Watson.

#


	15. IT'S NICE, WHAT YOU HAVE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Recovery

TO MAKE A DEAL

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

IT'S NICE, WHAT YOU HAVE.

~Three Months Later.~

John Watson smiled over his computer at Greg and Sherlock, bickering in their lounge room over dinner at Mycrofts which had been set for that weekend. John had heard about the mysterious older brother of Sherlocks but had never had the pleasure of meeting him.

"I don't want to go Sir. Mycroft has ignored us for months!" Sherlock whined petulantly. John snorted. It was hilarious, coming from a tall grown man like him.

"We have not seen him for months, Sherlock, because he was working. It was kind of him to invite us!" Greg shot back with.

"KIND, Sir? He feels obligated! I am sure he just wants to show off his new James Bond model boyfriend or to boast about how he saved Fiji from the vicious Wangdoodles or some such nonsense! Gods, I cannot stand how...SMUG he gets!"

"Jealousy does not suit you, you insufferable tart, we are going." Greg laughed, grabbing both of Sherlocks flailing and dramatic arms. "At the very least it will ensure John gets a good meal." Greg looked over at John. "Mycroft's chef is outstanding."

"Am I invited?" John asked in surprise. 

"Of course you are." Greg said. "You're family."

John smiled. He was already happier than he could ever remember being. Being told he was family just added to the joy.

Over the last three months John had done some serious healing. His body was back to fighting fit, his ribs were healed, the bite mark gone. His nose was a little bit crooked but this just added to his over all cuteness, if various people who thought to tell him so were telling him the truth. He had also had filled out in muscle tone and pinkness.

Not only that, he had become invaluable to Sherlock. As a mere human, John was not even slightly as clever as Sherlock, but as a conductor of light he was invaluable. Only last month all three of them had gone to Dartmoor and solved an interesting case involving hallucinogenic gas. Greg could rarely go out in the field and it was especially good that he was able to come with them that time. Other times it had been just John and Sherlock and mad dashes over rooftops and through back alleys. John felt alive even when gasping for air, blood pounding in his veins, just him and Sherlock against the world! *

John had also proven to be excellent with the written word and Greg encouraged him to blog his adventures with Sherlock, the mad Consulting Detective. His blog was very popular and got Sherlock some very interesting cases to solve. Greg thought the pair of them together were not only adorable but fairly unstoppable. He was both proud and exasperated, but none of them were ever bored.

John also had the privilege to see what a truly good sub/Dom dynamic entailed. Greg was authoritative and commanding all the time and most of the time Sherlock was obedient. If he was not he was punished in a variety of forms. Sometimes it was lashings with the belt, which John loved watching, or tease and denial of orgasm, which made John squirm in delight, wishing a Dom would do that to him, and sometimes it was a chastity device which John was thrilled to see used on Sherlock until the haughty man was begging Greg for forgiveness. It was awesome to see the Great Sherlock on his knees, begging with trembling lips for the right for release.

John had an open invitation to join in but he declined. He was just not ready to put his body, heart and soul on the line again. But he sure loved to watch.

As for Wendy....John stuck to his guns. Sure, she had tried, once, to persuade her Johnny to come back, she was sooooooo sorry, she was a changed woman, when he came back he would be the most cherished and loved slave ever, blah blah blah...

John took out a restraining order against her, and when she was arrested and charged with domestic violence, he put her behind him. He still had nightmares sometimes but there was always a Greg or a Sherlock, or sometimes both, to pet him and hug him and even sleep in the bed with him, curled around him to keep him safe.

"We will have to wear suits!" Sherlock was still gamely arguing with Sir to not go to Mycrofts place.

"I look spectacular in a suit." Greg said, slowly reeling Sherlock in by the arms until they were chest to chest. Sherlock swallowed.

"Yes Sir, you do." He whispered. Greg used his thumb and middle finger on Sherlocks wrists as if they were handcuffs and Sherlock became flushed and pink. 

"And you look like an edible Vogue Model in a bespoke, and you know it." Greg said then, lips inches from Sherlocks perfect mouth.

"I do..." The taller man agreed, nodding slowly.

"I bet John looks beautiful in a suit too."

Sherlock nodded again, and John could not keep his eyes off the both of them. He had not worn a suit since his sisters civil union. He didn't even OWN a suit.

"Sir....we are going to Mycrofts for dinner aren't we?" Sherlock said then, eyes locked to his Sirs.

"THERE'S the genius I know and love." Greg grinned. "Yes,we are. Now text your brother and accept the invitation on behalf of the three of us, there's a good boy." 

He gently pushed Sherlock away, turned him and slapped his bum. Sherlock yelped and jumped but obediently pulled out his phone and busied himself with texting.

Greg turned to John and held out his hand. John put aside his lap top and grabbed the hand offered to him.Greg heaved him effortlessly to his feet. John blushed as Greg ran his eyes up and down Johns compact sexy little body.

"I have just the thing for you to wear." He said. "Got to have you looking your best. You will like Mycroft. He's not a prat like his brother."

"Sir!" Sherlock protested and both Greg and John laughed.

#

Mycroft's house was stunning, ivy covered, circular drive, sandstone steps and a butler at the door. John could not believe it was real.

"Hello Mister Holmes." The perfectly put together butler said respectively, holding the front door open.

"Ezio. Where is my fat cat brother?" Sherlock asked, removing his coat.

"Be nice!" Greg snapped as they all divested themselves of their coats and handed the to the maid. The MAID! 

John gaped around, unconsciously tugging down his silk burgundy waistcoat and adjusting the cuffs of his fine black shirt. When Greg said he would look good in a suit he was not wrong. John looked gorgeous, in the beautiful suit with his hair slicked to the side. Perfect. Not vogue model perfect like Sherlock or handsome silver fox perfect like Greg, but sweetly unassuming and beautiful.

"This way Sirs." Ezio said, and lead the way through the hall to the walnut wooded study. Each were handed a tawny glass of whiskey and bid to wait by the fire until Mister Holmes ("the Elder") had concluded some unexpected business.

"This is...." John said, looking around. "....nice...." He downed the whiskey and put the glass on the green-leather topped desk that dominated the room.

"Mycroft likes his creature comforts." Sherlock said, and John loved the way his eyes shone with reluctant admiration.

"Sherlock, be nice!" Greg chuckled, sipping his drink.

The three men then heard voices and Ezio opened the door to admit Sherlocks brother.

Whatever John had been expecting it was not the Devine creature who walked through the door.

Tall, of course, auburn hair, straight nose, and lips both lush and firm. His whole demeanour was authoritative, commanding, he filled the room and Johns mouth went instantly dry. His eyes, though, moistened because he forgot to blink. It was only when they stung that he remembered he had eyelids. And then to swallow. And then to breathe.

"Mycroft, you recall Detective Inspector Lestrade, and this is John Watson." Sherlock introduced.

Mycroft strode over and thrust out his hand. Johns heart thudded in his throat and, instead of shaking the mans hand he held up both his wrists and whispered:

"Hello....Sir."

#

*yeah, I went there!


	16. EPILOGUE OF HAPPINESS

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All tied up nicely ~snicker, see what I did there?~

TO MAKE A DEAL

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

EPILOGUE OF HAPPINESS

"Rope" was filled with latex and corsets and black and boots and happy people, Doms and subs, sluts and slaves and Mistresses. 

Sherlock was there in leather jeans and a vest, collar and cuffs. Greg was proud of how pretty his boy looked and was pleased to show him off. Greg smiled when he thought of how far Sherlock had come in the last year, from strung out drug addict with urges he barely understood, to a useful, if high functioning sociopathic, member of society. 

He had learned his place in Greg's life, learned to feel free in his submission, and learned to give himself over, body and soul, to the man he loved and trusted. 

Greg, too, had come a long way. He and his wife had finally separated officially and he had told his family he was gay and had a stunning boyfriend. Most accepted this about him, but the most surprising reaction was from his colleagues at New Scotland Yard. There was gentle ribbing, and teasing of course, but they mostly just admired him for his work. His sexual orientation was second to that.

Sherlock, it transpired, was not as accepted because he was not as genial, and some at The Yard outwardly hated him, but there was no doubting he got the job done.

And as for John?

He, too, was at "Rope", at the feet of his new Sir. He was in a grey suit, which Mycroft preferred him in. Under his white shirt was a delicate sliver collar with the Holmes Family Crest hanging from it. When Mycroft fell for John he fell fast and hard. The two worked so well they were like two halves of a whole. Both healed each other, but it was John who benefited more. Mycroft was a good Dom, and John would do anything for him because he knew the man would never ask him to do something he just could not do. The love and gentle care stopped the nightmares and halted the flashbacks. And nobody, NOBODY, did aftercare as perfectly as Mycroft. Secretly? Mycroft adored looking after John. He was totally smitten with the blonde blogger.

Sherlock looked over to his brother, secretly pleased at the delighted look of happiness on that usually haughty face. The auburn haired man, only months before, would never have deigned to be seen at somewhere as pedestrian as "Rope" but the pride he had in John could not be stopped and he showed his boy off at every opportunity. 

Sherlock winked and raised his glass of water at Mycroft. Mycroft quirked a smile back and looked down at John.

John sighed happily, hands cuffed in front of him, cheek against Mycrofts thigh. Mycroft tapped his crop on his boot, a rhythmic staccato that measured the beating of his heart, and contentedly ran his fingers through Johns hair.

"Good boy John." He said, low and husky. "Good boy."

#


End file.
